The Name of the Game
by Linnie McCary
Summary: Dean has nothing that you'd want, you crazy old man! Sam shouted, the pain in his leg excruciating. Mahoney just shook his head, smiling horribly. That's where you're wrong, boy. Your brother has my life, and I want it back. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer**__: Original content and characters are mine, but the Winchesters are not. I write for my own entertainment, not for profit._

_**Spoilers**__: There are oblique references to many episodes. Anything in S1 or S2 is fair game._

_**A/N**__: The rating is for large amounts of bad language and violence—seven chapters' worth. With this story, I'm making good on a promise to write some hurt!Sam. I did. And if there's hurt!Sam, there must also be protective!Dean. _

_Thanks to the gang at "Paperclips and Peanut M&Ms" for everything, most pertinently an interesting and timely discussion about murder and moral compasses. Here's to a terrific S3!_

**The Name of the Game**

"Go left, go left!" Dean shouted, waving his brother around a tangled thicket before veering right himself, eyes locked on the sloping hindquarters of the crusker before it disappeared completely in the deep shadows under the trees.

Picking up its trail had been ridiculously easy, even with the moon mostly obscured by looming storm-clouds, but cruskers weren't much in the brains department, in Dean's experience—it was almost as though the thing had been waiting for them, pretty much right where the guy at the bar said it had been two nights earlier. The Winchesters had practically walked right into it, rounding a curve in the trail, the hyena-like creature hunkered over what looked like the remains of somebody's pet beagle. The crusker's massive jaws snapped rib bones as though they were pencils, and bloody gobbets of dog ghoulishly decorated its snout and chest. Dean had felt his gorge rise at the stench emanating from its long-furred body, eye-watering and almost overpowering even from thirty feet away, but the nausea had disappeared as soon as the thing looked up at them with a start, growling deep in its throat, its red eyes glowing.

Sam had taken a quick shot, and how he missed at that short range was anybody's guess, but he did, and the crusker took off with a snarl, the brothers hot on its heels, Sam cursing and apologizing for his poor aim in the same breath.

The creature had quickly drawn them some distance from the trail and deeper into the woods, and now Dean was regretting not having packed another gun, not to mention more ammo. Cruskers were big and powerful, but only dangerous to humans when they were cornered or injured. Still, you never knew when you'd come across the exception to that little rule. The only safe crusker was a dead crusker, and if there was anything Dean Winchester had learned at his daddy's knee, it was to be prepared. He knew better than to take chances—Dean laughed right out loud at that blatant lie, then saved what was left of his breath for the chase.

He heard Sam crashing through the tinder maybe twenty yards to his left, and the crusker itself probably as far ahead of him, his own panting loud in his ears and threatening to drown out all other sound. _Time to cut down on the cheeseburgers_, Dean thought between gasps, flinching to one side suddenly as an unseen branch whipped across his cheek, immediately raising a welt. Damn it!

It had begun to rain, wind picking up briskly as the storm that had been threatening all evening settled in. Dean could barely make out the crusker now, the beam from his flashlight leaping spasmodically as he ran, only occasionally glancing across the creature's backside, battery weakening as the supernatural thing fed off its energy. Dean almost missed seeing the crusker veer sharply right, swerving around the boles of two entwined birch trees.

"Sammy!" he yelled. "It's heading south! Shag your ass!"

There was an answering shout. Dean slipped in the dead leaves beneath the birches, going down hard on one knee but recovering quickly and plunging ahead. He poured on as much speed as he had left in him, but after another couple of minutes, he knew it was hopeless. The crusker was gone.

Breathing hard, Dean bent over and propped his hands on his knees, shotgun still gripped tight, feeling his racing heart calm as it recovered from the chase. He drew the back of his hand across his cheek, where the branch had struck him, but felt no blood. That's a first, he thought dryly—maybe his luck was changing for the better. _Now that would be something _really_ supernatural, wouldn't it?_

He straightened with a groan and headed back the way he had come, expecting to meet up with Sam at any moment. But the woods around him were still, and an uneasiness Dean hadn't felt before settled over him suddenly, adding a pall to the darkness under the trees. He stopped dead, straining to hear, switching off his flashlight so he could search for the glow of Sam's own, but there was nothing.

"Sam?" he called cautiously. "Sammy, where you at?"

There was no response.

Dean quickly turned his light back on and cast the waning beam ahead of him, sweeping the ground with it carefully as he went.

"Sam!" he yelled. "Answer me!"

Only the sound of rain smacking against dead leaves broke the silence, and there was no sign of his brother.

-:- -:- -:-

Sam heard Dean's shout, off to his right, beyond an immense tangle of bushes that somehow had managed to thrive under the oaks and white pines. Something about south.

"Yo!" he hollered back, wiping rain from his face, throwing the beam of his flashlight left and right to assess the best route to take around the thicket. What he saw made him stop short, chest heaving, as two men wearing camo gear and face-paint stepped suddenly from behind trees he'd just passed, deer rifles readied and pointed directly at Sam. Filtered moonlight and the gear they wore made them all but invisible.

A third man appeared just as suddenly, aiming his own flashlight directly into Sam's eyes, effectively blinding him. Sam bit back a curse, tamping down his instinct for fight or flight. Instead, he held his hands up placatingly, shielding his eyes from the harsh light, shotgun held loosely between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.

"Whoa, easy," he said, struggling to recover the breath he'd lost chasing the crusker. "Just doing a little hunting here, not trying to cause any trouble."

He wasn't certain what he'd stumbled into—some kind of paramilitary exercise, perhaps, or maybe some hardcore types protecting their cash-crop or meth lab—but he sure as hell wasn't interested in getting caught up in it, whatever it was.

The beam of light moved from his face to his chest, allowing him to see again once his eyes had adjusted, and the three men advanced on him slowly, one of them indicating with a jerk of his rifle that Sam was to put his own weapon down. Gingerly, Sam complied, bending deep at the knees to lay his gun on the forest floor, never taking his eyes off the men. He straightened cautiously, another jerk of the rifle pointed at his midsection convincing him to raise his arms above his head.

"Seriously, guys, I'm cool with whatever's going on here," he said. "I'll be happy to just go on my way."

The man with the flashlight laughed, a deep, nasty sound that Sam instantly interpreted as bad news.

"All right, Haskell," the man said.

Sam tried out his own laugh, one that allowed the joke to be on him. "I think you've got the wrong man," he said. "My name's not Haskell."

That was when he felt a tap on his shoulder. As he turned in surprise, the butt of yet another rifle—belonging to Haskell, no doubt—clipped him hard at the temple, and Sam crashed senseless to the needle-strewn ground like a fallen tree.

-:- -:- -:-

There was droning and vibrating, enough combined with the aching head to make him feel nauseous, and that was sufficient to bring him around. He was leaning to his left, his neck cricked against something hard, head resting upright, cheek pressed against slickness, cool like—there was a bounce, and his left temple smacked against the window-glass, eliciting brief stars. Sam blinked groggily, other pains awakening as he realized he was in the rear seat of a moving vehicle, propped against the locked door, hands bound tightly in front of him with a heavy plastic tie-strip.

They were traveling at a good clip on a fairly smooth surface, which Sam took to be paved road. Outside was pre-dawn darkness, heavy rain lashing down, but the inside of the vehicle was visible from the headlights of a car or truck close behind them.

He must have made a noise when he woke, because suddenly a hand twisted in the front of his jacket and pulled him upright, and he felt the barrel of a pistol in his ribs. Blinking again, Sam saw one of the camo'd men seated to his right, two more in the front of what was probably a Hummer. Some giant SUV, anyway.

"Carson," the man beside him growled, and the big man in the front passenger seat turned. _Flashlight Guy_, Sam thought, taking in the man's thick, bull-like neck and broad shoulders. His guess was confirmed when the man spoke.

"Take it easy, kid, and everything'll be fine."

Sam swallowed, his tongue feeling swollen and dry in his mouth, his lips parched. "Who are you?" he asked. "Where are you taking me?"

"Just going on a little visit, is all. Got somebody wants to meet you."

"Funny kind of invitation. Couldn't you have just asked?" Sam's head was pounding from the knocking it had received, and he was having trouble making his eyes focus.

In the light from the car following them, Carson's eyes glittered, pig-like. "Just shut up. We don't have much farther to go, and then Mr. Mahoney will answer all your questions."

Sam frowned. Mahoney? Didn't sound familiar. Far as he knew, the Winchesters didn't know anybody in New Hampshire, so….

"Who's Mahoney? What does he want?" he asked, and the gun barrel jabbed hard into his ribs.

"Shut up!" the dark-haired man beside him said, and Sam chose to comply, eying the man warily, then turning to look behind them. He squinted into the headlights close on their tail, instantly recognizing the Impala.

_Dean!_

But the condition of the road forced the Hummer driver to tap the brakes, the red lights briefly illuminating the Chevy's interior, and Sam's heart sank as he realized it wasn't Dean behind the wheel. Two guys in camo paint sat in the brothers' accustomed places, and God knew where Dean was. Maybe also captive, maybe unconscious, lying low in the back seat, or maybe still in the woods somewhere, chasing that damn crusker.

Sam twisted again to face front, rotating his wrists experimentally to test the strength of the tie-strip that bound them. The heavy plastic bit into his flesh, and he knew he'd have to be cut free.

"Hadn't better mess with the Impala," he ventured, earning another jab in the ribs with the pistol.

"I said shut it!" his seat companion snapped, but Carson laughed, a sound that raised the hackles on the back of Sam's neck.

"You'd better worry about how Mahoney's gonna mess with _you_," Carson said. "Relax, kid—we're almost there."

Sam peered out the window again. Now that dawn was coming, he could see they were traveling along a well-maintained road, curving past woods on the left and a high stone wall on the right. The rain came steadily, wind whipping the trees, and lightning streaked the northeast.

He shot a glance at the man next to him, tagging him as ex-Army, now maybe mercenary, maybe paramilitary, definitely not law enforcement. No, these guys weren't feds, Sam decided, but some sort of private squad. Security team, maybe.

In the front seat, Carson raised a dashboard radio mic to his mouth, depressing the thumb-button twice.

"Steinman? Carson. We're coming up on the gates," he said into the mic. "Tell Mahoney we have the target and should be at the house in five."

Sam eyed the door handle beside him, assessing his chances of escaping a moving vehicle. Whoever this Mahoney was, if he was waiting for them behind the big stone wall, Sam was pretty sure he should make his break now. The odds weren't good that he'd succeed, but he had to try.

The Hummer slowed as the driver lifted his foot off the accelerator and tapped the brakes, and Sam leaned to his right, slightly, ducking his head to see out the middle of the windshield. There was what looked like a private road up ahead, leading to a set of massive grilled gates that broke the stone wall. He prepared himself to move, without attracting the attention of the man seated next to him. When they made the turn, he'd go.

They came up on the gates, the vehicle slowing even more for the turn into the driveway. The man beside him craned his neck to see around Carson, and Sam seized his opportunity. He grabbed at the pistol in the man's hands, flipping it into the back of the vehicle, then lunged for the lock and the door handle, popping the door open quickly and spilling out onto the wet pavement, rolling seven, eight times as momentum propelled him forward.

Once he was in control of his own movement, Sam gathered his feet under him, certain that the road-rash on elbows and knees wasn't too severe. The Hummer screeched to a halt, the Impala nearly smashing into it, guys in camo spilling out hurriedly, shouting, as Sam climbed quickly to his feet and ran down the road, angling toward the woods on the other side.

He stopped short as the bullet whizzed past his ear, uncertain whether it was meant to hit him or had gone exactly where intended. Either way, he figured his best option for making it out of this alive now was to stay put.

"Don't be stupid, kid!" Carson called, and Sam closed his eyes in defeat before raising his tethered hands over his head. In seconds he was surrounded again, men on either side of him grabbing his arms and gripping tight.

There was a look of anger and disappointment on Carson's face as he approached, stopping in front of Sam and shaking his head sadly.

"Kid, you shouldn't have done that. Now I'm going to have to teach you a little lesson. Haskell!"

The man who'd been in the back seat with Sam raised the butt of the pistol he'd retrieved and brought it down on Sam's head again. When he fell this time, Sam didn't even feel himself hit the ground.

-:- -:- -:-

The blank period was brief, and Sam re-awoke as they manhandled his long body back into the Hummer's rear seat, sandwiching him now between two men. His nausea had returned, and he thought briefly, fondly, of spewing the contents of his stomach all over his captors' boots. Wisdom prevailed and Sam struggled instead to keep last night's dinner to himself. It had tasted bad enough the first time.

A guard waved them through the gates and they headed up a long, straight driveway bisecting broad expanses of neatly trimmed lawn. Security lighting in the dark gray of early morning revealed a parking area littered with pickups and Jeeps, a collection of four outbuildings and a main house that could only be called a mansion. Georgian architecture, Sam noted, surprising himself with his recall of the upper-level American architecture seminar he'd taken his freshman year at Stanford. Brick; hipped roof; double chimneys; columns and cornice at the door. Everything in perfect symmetry, tidy, logical, mathematical. Certainly no place a Winchester belonged, so what the hell was going on?

The driver pulled the Hummer up to the rear of the big house, and Sam craned his neck to see the Impala disappear behind one of the outbuildings. He guessed, then, that Dean wasn't tied up or unconscious in the back seat, because they'd have brought him to the house, too. Wouldn't they?

Sam realized suddenly that they hadn't frisked him, unless it had happened while he was unconscious. His gun was gone, of course, but unless he'd dropped it or broken it when he threw himself out of the Hummer, there was a good chance that his cell phone was still in his jacket pocket. There was also a good chance, however, that he hadn't turned it off, and Sam offered up a silent prayer that Dean wouldn't call. At least, not yet. Maybe Mahoney, whoever he was, would be as sloppy as these wanna-be A-Team morons, and Sam would get a moment to himself to call his big brother.

_Hey, Dean? It's Sam. I don't exactly know where I am, but I'm pretty sure I don't want to be here. If you're not doing anything, do you think you could swing by and rescue me?_

Sam couldn't help quirking a smile, but it vanished quickly when he considered what his brother's own circumstances might be. Then there was no more time for consideration, as Sam was pulled roughly from the back of the Hummer and hustled up a set of steps to the mansion's rear door. There was a Three Stooges moment actually getting him across the threshold and into the house, and Sam snorted derisively.

Better not to underestimate these guys, though, he thought—if there was anything he'd learned at his daddy's knee, it was not to be overconfident, because that made you careless. Caution and planning were everything—Sam almost laughed out loud at that blatant lie, because in his whole life, there wasn't a thing he'd planned that had come out well. The crusker hunt, for example. As for caution? Well, look where that had gotten John Winchester. Look where it had gotten any of them.

Sam couldn't remember what the interior of a Georgian house was supposed to look like, except for the central staircase, but the ground floor of this one contained a number of large, rectangular rooms, with keystone marble flooring and opulent Oriental rugs. For a while, Sam had dated an interior design major he'd met in the architecture seminar—a student at a nearby fashion college, Gina had been crashing the class, and he'd helped her stay below the professor's radar. She had taken him to more designer showcases than he would ever admit to, and apparently some of what he'd learned had stuck. Many of the furnishings in this house were things he recognized: delicate Chippendale wing chairs with cabriole legs mixed elegantly with damask sofas, Hepplewhite chaises, claw tables and six-legged sideboards in the Sheraton style, all under octopus-like glass chandeliers. It was incongruous to see the security team, armed and in camouflage, treading heavy-booted down the pale marble main hall.

They frog-marched him into what appeared to be a sitting room, where a balding, brown-haired man in his thirties was waiting. Sam frowned. Was this Mahoney? Couldn't be—the inexpensive suit the man wore was the give-away, assuming Mahoney owned the mansion and grounds. Then who was he?

The man glanced at him nervously, avoiding meeting Sam's eyes, clearly ill at ease and nearly flinching when Carson approached him.

"Doc, where's Mahoney?" Carson cast his gaze around the room, and Sam was struck once again by how out of place the burly man seemed in the finely appointed setting. In fact, they _all_ looked out of place, including the man in the cheap suit.

"Mr. Mahoney has had a bad night," the doctor said, "and I've just given him something to help him rest. He's quite anxious to, um…." The guy was having a hard time looking directly at Sam, but he finally managed to meet Sam's intent gaze. "He's quite anxious to meet you, Mr. Winchester, and asked me to convey his apologies for the delay."

"Who the hell is he?" Sam demanded without preamble, hoping he'd managed to hide the chill he felt at hearing the doctor use his name. "Man, this isn't a social call. I've been brought here against my will—see these?" He held up his bound wrists, displaying them for the doctor. "Carson and the rest of these bozos were running around in the woods playing Rambo, and I don't know why the hell, but for some reason they decided that this guy Mahoney wants to see me. So here I am. Now, get him up, or get me out of here."

The doctor seemed cowed by his bravado, but Carson was less than impressed, judging by the punch he landed in Sam's solar plexus. Sam doubled over, gasping, and the doctor flinched visibly.

"Mr. Carson—" the man protested feebly.

"Shut it, doc," Carson ordered. "Stick to your pills and tongue depressors, and leave this business to me. All right, let's get him down to the cellar. He can wait for Mahoney there."

Sam stumbled repeatedly as they hauled him out of the sitting room and across the main hallway, past the dining room and toward what was apparently the kitchen. They'd learned their lesson about thresholds, because when they reached the closed doorway to the cellar, they had no trouble manhandling Sam through, dragging him down the stairs and along an aisle-way crowded with books and boxes to a small room at the far end.

Carson flicked the light-switch, and a bare bulb glowed dimly from the ceiling of the small, damp space. It smelled of mold and mouse-dung and disuse, and was completely empty but for a pair of chains hung high on the wall, shackles dangling from their ends. Sam blinked at them once in disbelief.

"You must be joking," he said.

Carson laughed, then jerked his head at the two men holding Sam. Sam wasted no more time, but began struggling, trying now to throw them off, to break free. Still, it was no surprise when Haskell appeared in the cell and smashed his gun against Sam's head for the third time.

Darkness fell.

-:- -:- -:-

It was pitch black beneath these damn trees, now that the flashlight was completely dead. Cell, too; battery drained by the crusker, like it was a friggin' spirit. Sonofabitch had probably used the energy for that last little burst of speed through the undergrowth, leaving its pungent odor on every leaf, leaving Dean in the dust. Or the mud, actually, because _that_ crap was ankle-deep in places now, clinging to the cuffs of his jeans, working its way down into his boots as he squelched through the woods.

"Sam!"

Dean's voice was rough as he called for the hundredth time. He told himself firmly that he was wasting his time and worry, that Sam was back at the car, probably snoring, waiting for his stupid-ass big brother to quit tromping around out in the rain.

Things would be better if he weren't lost, his unfailing sense of direction having utterly failed him in these damn fucking trees.

In the darkness, every single bush looked exactly like the dozen he had just passed or fallen over. Dean had thought he recognized the entwined birches where the crusker had taken a sharp right, and he hoped he was retracing his steps back toward the Impala, but he had a sinking feeling that he'd gotten turned around, somehow.

No, wait! _Those_ were the trees, definitely, because _here_—he knelt and ran his hand along the wet ground—yeah, this was where he had slipped, leaving a long skid-mark in the leaves. He heaved a sigh of relief, readjusting the compass in his head.

Except that it still wasn't oriented correctly, because true north wasn't answering his calls.

"Sam!"

When he'd heard Sam shout, his little brother had been thataway, maybe sixty, seventy feet to the northwest. Behind that freaking wall of bushes—how the hell did this stuff grow under these trees, anyway?

Dean battled his way around the thicket, eyes straining to see everything and finding nothing. For only a second he allowed himself to understand what he was really looking for, terrified he'd see: his brother's body, lying lifeless in the mud and leaves. With a growl, Dean sent the thought fleeing.

He'd never considered himself paranoid, just cautious, and he damn well had a right to be concerned about Sam's safety. Always had been, for as long as he could remember, and he wasn't about to stop now. Especially since—

_Ah, fuck. _

Dean stopped for a moment, dropping his head to his chest, allowing the thought to come, just to get it over with.

Especially since Cold Oak. Since Sam had died. Since then, nothing was the same.

Something in his chest squeezed his heart tightly, and Dean winced, rubbing a rough hand over his face before pulling himself together, tamping down his panic.

All right, Sam wasn't here, and he hadn't been between here and where Dean had last seen the crusker, and he wasn't likely to still be out running around in the woods—wasn't for nothin' they'd given little Sammy Winchester that full ride to Stanford.

So, in the real, non-paranoid world, that meant it was very likely that Sam had, in fact, gone back to the car. That he was there in the warmth and comfort of the front seat, waiting for Dean to haul his wet ass back there, too.

Dean was back on the trail, now. Although the rain had let up, passing cloudbursts occasionally drenched him on the two-mile trek back to where they'd left the Impala. More than anything, Dean wanted (_to see Sam, find him alive and well, sitting in the car, bopping his head to some sissy music on his iPod_).

Damn it!

Dean calmed himself and tried again.

More than anything, he wanted a hot shower, followed by a couple of drinks at the local bar with his little br—

_Fuck!_

"Sammy!" he roared, but there was still no answer.

Unable to take it any longer, Dean began to run back toward the road, back to the Impala, needing to prove himself right and wrong at the same time—right that Sam was safe, wrong that he was gone again. Wrong that Sam had left by choice or been taken again.

_Again!_

The litany in Dean's head kept time to his pounding feet—_ColdOakColdOakColdOak_—until he burst out of the trees onto the roadway and stopped dead, chest heaving, looking around him in shock.

Where the hell was the car?

Dean whirled, looking back the way he'd come, then up the road on the other side. Yeah, that was the trail, and that was the mile-marker, so where--?

He crossed the road quickly, its asphalt shining faintly in the moonlight that finally strained through thinning clouds. Found the boot-marks and the tire tracks that told him this was the right spot. Except that it wasn't right at all. Sam was gone, and it looked like he'd taken the car with him.

Memories and emotion swept through Dean, then, _flooded_ through him, obliterating every levee, every dam he'd constructed so carefully to keep them in their places.

Sam was gone.

On his knees in the mud beside the road, Dean cried out to the heavens.

"Sam!"

-:- -:- -:-

_TBC. Comments welcomed._


	2. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer**__: Original content and characters are mine, but the Winchesters are not. I write for my own entertainment, not for profit._

_Thanks for continuing to read!_

-:- -:- -:-

When Sam awoke, he was hanging bonelessly against the basement wall, knees slightly buckled, arms stretched over his head by the full weight of his body. Heavy metal cuffs encased his wrists, abrading the flesh there as he dangled from chains mounted near the ceiling.

Sam got his feet under him and stood rapidly, groaning as the pain of metal cutting into his hands and the strain on his shoulders eased. He shook his arms, trying to reawaken them, the chains clanking noisily against the rock and concrete wall.

The room was dark, but he didn't believe he'd been unconscious for very long. Chances were it was still early morning.

His head hurt. A lot.

Frustrated, Sam gripped the chains above his wrists, tugging at them, testing their hold. They were firmly anchored, high and wide enough apart that there was little give. Even with his height, he couldn't reach across to touch one hand with the other.

For the first time since he'd been captured, he had the presence of mind to realize he could be in trouble. Really. Something was seriously crazy, here—wherever here was. He wondered again about Dean, hoping his brother was all right, hoping he was out there right now, looking for Sam, close to finding him.

A door slammed somewhere nearby, and Sam froze, then huffed a faint laugh. Could it be--?

But the tromp of heavy footsteps spoke of more than one person approaching, and after a moment, artificial light spilled into the room as the door was opened, Carson pushing it wide and then stepping back deferentially, flipping the wall switch as he did so.

An old man entered, gaunt but immaculately and expensively dressed in a tailored suit and shoes polished to a high shine. It was clear that, although he was probably in his nineties, he was still very vital, his movements crisp, almost gliding, with no indication of arthritis or rheumatism. His hair was white yet still thick and wavy, his face a roadmap of wrinkles from which shone oddly bright blue eyes.

His eagerness at seeing Sam, chained against the far wall, was almost frightening.

"Ahhhh," the man breathed, deep satisfaction evident on his lined face, but Sam heard the thick phlegm rattle in his chest and throat

_Sick, then_, Sam thought—_definitely physically, and maybe mentally as well_.

The doctor hovered anxiously and Carson looked on, feigning disinterest, as the old man crossed the room quickly, hands outstretched, reaching for Sam with fervid impatience.

"Who are you?" Sam asked, not certain he was successful at keeping the alarm out of his voice. "Are you Mahoney? What do you want with me?"

He wasn't sure the old man understood him, as glittering eyes roved over him with an unnerving fascination. Sam grimaced when paper-dry fingers plucked at the collar of his shirt, exquisitely manicured nails scraping across his throat, around the back of his neck, fumbling under his hair.

"What do you want?" he repeated, lip curling in disgust at the unwelcome touch. He shrank away as the old man leaned in, almost as if to kiss him, sour breath wheezing out of his lungs as he tugged Sam's shirt away from his chest, peering anxiously at the bared flesh. The blue eyes hardened suddenly, and with a hiss the man grabbed a fistful of Sam's hair, yanking it hard and pulling Sam's head to the side, glaring up at him.

"Who are you?" Sam demanded, feeling his pulse jump in the exposed artery of his neck, hating the nervous tension in his voice.

"You're the wrong one, aren't you?" the man spat angrily. "You're the wrong damn one!"

Carson pushed himself off the doorjamb where he had been leaning, concern suddenly on his scowling face.

"You said the older one, Mr. Mahoney. That's who we brought."

The old man untangled his fingers from Sam's hair, as suddenly disinterested in him as if he did not exist, now focusing all his vitriol on Carson.

"Older doesn't necessarily mean taller, you idiot," he said, gliding back across the room swiftly and striking Carson sharply across the face. Sam watched uneasily as the burly man accepted the blow without flinching. "You brought me the whelp! You couldn't think to bring them both?"

"Why?" Sam grated.

Carson looked at him over Mahoney's head, but Mahoney didn't even turn around.

"What do you want from us?" Sam demanded.

"Nothing from you," the old man said dismissively, tossing the words over his shoulder. "You're meaningless. But the other one is a different story."

"Why?" Sam asked again, eyes narrowing. "What's Dean ever done to you?"

Mahoney's tone was supercilious, haughty. "It's not a matter of having done something, boy. I want him, and I'll have him."

"You're going to need to bring a better game, then. Dean will make mincemeat out of this chump." Sam jerked his chin at Carson, who crossed the room in three giant steps and backhanded him, leaving Sam's ears ringing and the room spinning.

"Watch your mouth, kid," the beefy man said, scowling. "I took _you_ easy enough."

Sam blinked hard to clear his head and laughed. "When my brother comes after you, just remember that you asked for it."

Mahoney moved between them, looking up at Sam again, anger replaced by a calculating expression on his wizened face.

"That's right, isn't it?" he murmured thoughtfully. "He'll come, now that I have you. Nothing would keep him away."

"You can't trap him," Sam warned. "No matter what your play is, you'll never get him."

"I think you're wrong, boy." Mahoney tapped his chin, bemused. "I've heard the stories, and I think he'll do whatever it takes to have you out of harm's way. Isn't that right? He'll just walk in here and give himself up, if that is what your safety requires. Maybe you're not so meaningless, after all, eh?"

He peered at Sam closely for several moments, as if examining a curious piece of art, then wheeled on Carson. "Where's the phone?"

"What phone, Mr. Mahoney?"

"The cell phone, the cell phone! Didn't he have one with him?"

Carson's face reddened, and he ran rough hands over Sam's body, searching. He quickly discovered the cell in Sam's jacket pocket and ripped it out, glaring balefully at his captive. Sam let his mouth twist into a mocking smile, and Carson responded by bringing his knee up sharply into Sam's groin.

Sam bit back a yelp of pain, drawing one leg up to try to ease the blossoming agony, yanking again futilely at the chains that held his arms over his head.

"Who's smiling now, huh, kid?" Carson asked, leaning in to growl into Sam's ear. "You and me can have a go when Mr. Mahoney is through with you."

Mahoney swatted at his arm. "Grow up, you oaf," the old man snarled. "Take the phone into the den and wait for me there. I have to think about what we're going to do next, to recover from your ineptitude. Don't slam the door on your way out."

"You want us to go get the other one, Mr. Mahoney?" Carson asked. "You give the word, and we'll bring him in."

Mahoney's displeasure was evident. "I gave the _word_ the first time, you lackwit," he said, sarcasm dripping heavily from each word. "Now I want you to follow my instructions!"

Carson leered again at Sam and then shot a glance at Mahoney, nodding deferentially and closing the door gently behind him.

"I don't know who you are, mister," Sam groaned between teeth clamped tight, "but you don't know what you're getting into, going after my brother. That's a big mistake."

Mahoney's chuckle was humorless. "Such hubris coming from someone chained to a wall," he observed dryly. "But I assure you that there's no need for any unpleasantness. In fact, all I want is to conduct a little business, perhaps make a little trade."

"Then what's _this_ all about?" Sam gave another yank at his chains. "Shouldn't we be talking business over a civilized drink? Or on a golf course, maybe?"

The old man laughed again. "Perhaps so, although I understand that your brother responds better to force than to reason."

Sam shook his head. "Whatever you think you know about Dean, you don't know nearly enough, Mahoney, or you'd let me go right now."

One manicured hand reached up again and patted Sam absently on the chest. "What I think—no, what I'm _sure_ of, boy—is that he's going to see things my way. He's going to come right to me and do whatever I want, give me whatever I want, because of you. You're my ace in the hole, aren't you, Sam?"

His name sounded almost obscene on the old man's lips, and Sam grimaced again.

This time Mahoney patted him on the cheek.

"Try to get some rest, won't you?" he said, turning languidly toward the door and switching off the light as he exited, leaving Sam in utter darkness.

-:- -:- -:-

It was easily a five-mile hike back to the motel, with no traffic on the road. At least, no traffic willing to pick up a scruffy-looking hitchhiker in the rainy wee hours, even if the driver couldn't see the shotgun stashed inside his jacket. So Dean walked.

The storm had mostly blown through, although the sky still threatened. He was drenched, jeans chafing, boots twenty pounds each with mud and water. And when the wind picked up every now and then, it was freakin' _cold_.

_Dammit!_

The Impala wasn't in the parking lot. He had kind of been hoping (_praying_) that this was some sort of seriously unfunny prank Sam was pulling on him. It had been a while since they'd played those games—certainly not since Cold Oak, a realization Dean banished to someplace dark and abandoned—but a prank was the least frightening of the possibilities he had tortured himself with on the long trek back from the woods.

But, no, the Impala was nowhere in sight, and there was no sign in the motel room that Sam had been there since they had gone in search of the crusker.

He grabbed the land-line phone first thing, but it was dead, too—no busy signal, no dial tone, just nothing. Probably a tree down across the wires; Dean suspected that happened often enough, this time of year. Plus, his typical luck….

At least the power was still on.

Most of his personal gear was stowed in his bag, kicked under the bed and masked from sight by last week's tee-shirt, now lying crumpled on the floor. Dean pawed through the bag quickly, taking stock of his arsenal, already knowing what he had available—the blade he slept with, shot-loads of salt, and a spare clip for the Glock he carried. Plus a couple of little extra tools.

He reloaded and stashed the handgun at the small of his back, stowing the shotgun in the bottom of the bag. Then Dean grabbed the cell phone charger and plugged everything in before hustling to the motel office to see if Sam had left any messages.

The night-clerk seemed a little disturbed by Dean's intrusion, hastily confirming his suspicion that the phone lines were down and assuring him they were usually fixed within a few hours.

Once he was back in the room and caught sight of himself in the mirror over the dresser, Dean realized that the night-clerk might have thought he looked a little intense. Okay, possibly even insane. There had been no messages, of course, from Sam or from anybody else, and Dean might have punched something a little bit. Just the wall, though. Didn't even leave much of a mark.

Rubbing a bruised hand over tired eyes, Dean considered his options. No phone, no car, no brother—right now his life was royally FUBAR, that was for damn sure. So what was the next step?

Couldn't call the cops. Seriously, what was he gonna say? _Hi, officer. I'm wanted for murder, but could you help me find my little brother? I haven't seen him for a couple of hours, and I'm afraid he's run away from home again._

Couldn't steal a car, because where was he gonna go?

Sam's laptop was in the Impala, so research was out, and Dean didn't have any idea what the hell to research, anyway.

Way too late for last-call, and still too early for most of the local businesses to be open, so nobody was around to talk to, even if he knew what questions to ask.

Cleaning stuff was out, all the way around--weapons were in the trunk, and this sure as hell wasn't the time for laundry.

Couldn't sleep and had no appetite, not with Sam gone.

_Dammit!_

Dean grabbed the remote and clicked on the television, flipping rapidly twice through the basic cable offerings, mostly infomercials for God, gym equipment and ladies' wear at this hour. With a muttered curse, he switched the TV off and threw the remote onto the nightstand.

Shower? Hell, he had to do _some_thing, or he'd go freaking nuts until the cell was recharged or the phone lines repaired.

He tried the shower, but had to give it up as a bad job when he kept ducking in and out of the water, thinking he'd heard Sam come back. Had soaped up four times before he finally quit, mindlessly dressing in clean jeans but the same shirts as day before yesterday.

By the time the cell was usable, it was almost a quarter of eight, and Dean was about to lose it. He'd planned his calls: Sammy first, of course, but if he didn't pick up, then Dean was gonna call Bobby next, then Ellen, then everyone else he could think of until the damn phone was dead again.

His call to Sam went straight through to voice-mail, and for a moment Dean couldn't think of what to say. What if Sammy really had taken the car and ditched him?

_No. Sam wouldn't have done that, not again. Not after Wyoming_.

"Hey, uh, Sam." He had to stop to clear his throat. "It's me. I'm at the motel and, uh, you aren't. Heh, guess you know that. Gimme a call, all right? All right. 'Bye."

He snapped the phone shut, sinking down on the bed and dropping his head into his hands. _Lame, Dean_, he thought. _Get a grip_.

He punched in a set of numbers he knew better than to save on speed-dial, starting right in when the phone was picked up on the third ring.

"Bobby, it's happened again, and I'm really pretty sure somebody's got him." He was talking fast, the words piling up on one another. "It was raining and—well, _dark_—but I think I saw another set of tire marks."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," a voice on the other end said. "Dean? That you?"

"Yeah. You haven't heard from him, have you, or from anybody who might be looking for him?"

"I'd have called you, if I had. You boys in New Hampshire?"

That stopped Dean for a moment, before he remembered who he was talking to, and he knew Bobby heard the hesitation. "Uh, yeah. How'd you know we're here?"

"Talked to a mutual lady-friend of ours."

_Ellen_.

"Look, Bobby, the car's gone, too, and all the equipment. I need someone on the research end of this thing, 'cause I don't know what the hell. You do that for me?"

"Let me see what I can find out. And Dean?"

Cold Oak loomed over the conversation, like it did over every conversation they'd had since, its icy fingers clutching Dean's heart. Once again he banished the memory.

"Yeah?"

"You'll find him—you always do."

"Yeah. Thanks."

-:- -:- -:-

No sooner had he ended the call than his ring-tone sounded loudly, and Dean almost dropped the phone, his fingers trembling as he checked the caller ID.

"Sammy?" he barked, hearing the anger and fear and relief in his voice. "Where the hell are you?"

But it wasn't Sam who responded.

"He's in a safe place, I assure you."

Dean didn't recognize the caller's voice—a man's, and old. Maybe seventy, eighty years, even. Slight New England accent, the _cultured_ one, with a hint of condescending amusement and nastiness beneath it. For a moment, Dean's heart forgot to beat.

"Who is this?" he asked, far from certain that he wanted to hear the answer. "Where'd you get that phone?"

A chuckle. "Oh, I found it in Funkytown, Mr. Winchester. Isn't that the code you two use, to let each other know there's trouble? Allow me to save your brother the effort."

Dean felt the blood in his veins freeze, and licked lips that were suddenly parched. "Put him on, right now," he ordered.

"Certainly, certainly."

There was a pause, and then Sam's voice, a little ragged but music to Dean's ears.

"Dean, don't—"

A short, muffled cry came next, and Dean flinched, sudden anger boiling inside him.

"Sam!"

The old man spoke again. "He's suffered no permanent damage, Mr. Winchester. You may have him back unharmed, I promise."

"Who is this? What do you want?" Dean's focus narrowed to a pinpoint, all his attention on the man at the other end of the call, a man he was certain now that he did not know.

"I'll answer all your questions in due time, my young friend. But first I want to make sure you're in the appropriate frame of mind to conduct business."

"I don't know what you're talking about, mister," Dean said, voice harsh, "but I swear to God, if you hurt my brother, your time is up."

Another dry chuckle. "Almost. I'll be in touch."

The call ended, and when Dean tried to call back, he was again directed to voice-mail.

"Sonofabitch!" he snarled, punching in Bobby's number. This time, Bobby answered on the first ring.

"Somebody's definitely got him—some old guy, Bobby, and he's here, somewhere close. Guy said something about wanting to do some business, and he's hooked up with Gordon, somehow."

"Gordon." The name obviously wasn't ringing any of Bobby's bells.

"Gordon Walker. You know—the vampire-killer." Dean frowned impatiently, rubbing his brow with the heel of his hand. Usually Bobby was quicker on the uptake than this.

"I thought you said he was in jail."

"They got phones in jail, too," Dean said, desperation sharpening his voice. "Bobby, is it hunters? You gotta be straight with me, man. If it's hunters that have Sam, I gotta know."

"I don't know, Dean, but I don't think so. I think I'd have heard. What makes you say this old guy is connected to Gordon Walker?"

"Something—" Dean cleared his throat, realizing he was holding the phone in a death-grip. "A code word Gordon heard me use with Sam once, back in Indiana. This guy knew it; he knew what it meant."

"Okay, Dean, calm down. Did he say what kind of business he wanted to do?"

"Well, hell, yes, Bobby! He wants me to look over his stock portfolio!"

There was silence from the other end, and Dean grimaced, mentally kicking himself for his outburst.

"Bobby, I'm sorry. It's just that—"

"'Sall right, Dean. What else did he say?"

Dean thought back, then shook his head. "Nothin'. He put Sam on the line for a second"—he heard Bobby's sigh of relief—"and then he said he'd call back. Aw, shit, I gotta get off the phone—what if he's callin' right now?"

"Dean, you be smart," Bobby cautioned. "You're on your own, out there, and you need to keep a level head. Let me do some checkin', and I'll get back to you when I can."

The older man hung up, and Dean hurriedly snapped his cell closed. Stared at it hard, as if that would make it ring.

It didn't.

-:- -:- -:-

An hour later, Dean was ready to climb the walls, but when his cell finally rang, for a moment all he could do was stare at it some more. Finally, collecting himself, he took the call.

"You got Dean."

"How convenient," the old man sighed at the other end, "since I also have Sam."

"What do you want, asshole?"

His caller tsked. "There's no reason to be unpleasant, Mr. Winchester. I'm perfectly willing to conduct our business professionally, now that I have your attention."

"You've got my _brother_, you sonofabitch. I want him back. Now. Unharmed, or you're gonna regret the day you messed with us."

"There's really no need for name-calling," the breathy voice chided. "It's entirely unnecessary. You may have your brother back, essentially unharmed. I just want a little something in return."

"I don't know who you are, but I got nothin' you'd want."

"On the contrary; you have something I want very much."

"What would that be?"

"A better question is _where_ would that be, Mr. Winchester. I think we should meet face to face."

"Yeah, well, I'd love to accommodate you, but it seems like something's happened to my car as well as to my brother."

Dean was beginning to hate the man's dry chuckle. "So sorry to hear that. I'll be happy to send a driver for you. Are you at the motel?"

"Never mind where I'm at. Let me talk to Sam."

"No. Not yet. Are you ready to meet with me?"

"Are you ready to let me talk to Sam?"

There was a long pause, and Dean could hear the old man's breath rattling in his throat on the other end.

"Let me get back to you."

Then there was silence, until Dean called Bobby for the third time.

-:- -:- -:-

_TBC. Comments welcomed._


	3. Chapter 3

_**Disclaimer**__: Original content and characters are mine, but the Winchesters are not. I write for my own entertainment, not for profit._

_Thanks for reading! And for the alerts, and for the comments--I appreciate them SO much! Thank you, thank you! Am road-tripping (yeah, Winchester-style!) for the next couple of weeks, but hope to still update every three days or so, wi-fi allowing, until all seven chapters are posted. Please bear with me!_

-:- -:- -:-

Sam had no idea how long he'd stood in the darkness, chained against the cellar wall like a bit-player in a Disney pirate movie. His fingers were numb, his wrists chafed, and his head throbbed from the pounding he'd received.

_Same shit, different hour._

He'd tried, but it had been pretty clear from the beginning that there was no way in hell he could pull the chains out of the wall, or slide his hands from the cuffs, or train tiny white mice to carry messages—

When the door swung open unexpectedly, Sam winced as the light from the hallway flooded into the room, nearly blinding him.

"Hey, Winchester—you enjoying Mr. Mahoney's hospitality?"

"What are you doing down here, Carson?" Sam asked, annoyance sharpening his voice. The man was clearly a bully, and Sam an easy target, cuffed as he was. Sam kept a watchful eye on his visitor, contemplating what he might be able to do should Carson come close. The guy definitely meant trouble.

Carson smiled, nonchalantly smacking his right fist into the palm of his left hand, and Sam almost laughed aloud.

If there had ever been a master of intimidation, it had been John Winchester. Growing up, Sam and Dean had often seen their dad's subtle style in action, recognizing it as a thing of horrific beauty. He'd known just how to pitch his voice (_cool arrogance making you doubt you knew your own name_); just how to shade his eyes (_dismissive judgment dropping the temperature in the room five degrees_); just where to place his body (_dangerous proximity making you pray he didn't rip your liver out through your chest_) for maximum effect.

Oh, he'd never used that technique on his sons—at least, not often. No, with his sons he'd run more to extremes, loud or silent, hot or cold, loving or…not. There hadn't been much subtlety between them, ever, not that Sam could remember, particularly in the years before Sam had left for college. And if some people had thought their dad bullied his boys, then Sam wasn't necessarily inclined to argue. Still, there had never been any doubt about one thing: While the man had been masterful at getting what he wanted, whatever method he chose, it was his subtleties that had always gotten the best results.

Carson's ham-fisted attempts at intimidation were just plain pathetic, but Sam tried to keep his face impassive, unaffected.

"Just came to see how you were, uh, holding up," the security man said, indicating the chains and snickering at his own little joke.

"Right. Clever. Between the Keystone Kops and your killer stand-up routine, it's easy to see why Mahoney keeps you around for comic relief."

The words were out before Sam could stop them, but he had no doubt what the effect would be. Sure enough, Carson came at him in fury, crossing the room and driving a fist into Sam's stomach before Sam could act to avoid him or kick him away. Breath exploded out of him as Sam doubled over, jerking against the chains.

"Listen, you little punk!" Carson snarled. "You think you're so damn smart, but you and your brother, you're dead meat once Mahoney gets what he wants out of you! We'll see who's so smart then!"

"What does he think we have?" Sam asked, struggling for air. "C'mon, Carson, you gotta know what it is."

The rage faded from Carson's face, quickly replaced by cocky smugness. "It really doesn't matter what it is, or if you've even got it," he said, almost blithely, eyes wandering up the chains and down again.

"Make some sense, man."

Carson made a show of examining the fingernails of his right hand, the effect fairly ludicrous for a man his size. "Mahoney's mind is made up, kid, and you can't talk sense into a guy like him. He wants something"—he flicked his middle finger against his thumb, thumping it into Sam's chest—"but he doesn't have it"—thump—"and he thinks you do"—thump—"and he's gonna get it"—thump.

"That's crazy," Sam replied with a frown. "If we don't have it, then that's just crazy."

The security man laughed, gave Sam's chest a final thump and stepped back.

"Just catching on to that?" he asked. "Looks like you're not so smart after all. Guy's bug-shit wacko! And right now? All that crazy attention is focused right on you and your brother." Carson smacked his fist into his hand again, and Sam fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Yeah, Mahoney's determined to get what he wants out of you, one way or the other, and he's got the will and the money to make it happen."

"Man, I'm tellin' you, whatever it is, we don't have it. Me and my brother—we don't have _any_thing."

"That's not what your friends say."

Sam's brows flew together, his breath catching suddenly in his throat. "What?"

Carson's grin was shark-like. "Heard from one of 'em yesterday, in fact, sellin' you right out. Let me give you some advice, buddy—you should be more careful about who you let in on your little family secrets."

Even Carson could see that his words had landed a telling blow. Sneering with satisfaction, he stepped back again, his eyes on Sam's, moving until he reached the doorway. With a flick of the switch, he stood in silhouette, framed by the light in the cellar hallway.

"Have a nice day, asshole!" he said jovially, taking one more step back. Then he slammed the door, leaving Sam in darkness once again.

Sam felt stunned. It had long been a given among the Winchester men that they didn't tell anyone anything about their business—hell, they damn near never even told one _another_ anything.

So who could possibly--?

There were few people they really even knew, much less people they were actually close to. Sam thought that maybe Pastor Jim had known the Winchesters well, once, but that had been a long time ago, back when he and Dean were little. And Caleb—well, Caleb and Jim Murphy were both dead now, so unless Mahoney was communicating with them across the veil somehow, they weren't the source of the old man's information.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unlocking protesting knees.

_What about the people at the roadhouse?_

Sam dismissed the idea quickly. It was true that the brothers had become close to Ellen Harvelle in a very short time, enough so that Sam himself had shared with her the truth about his psychic abilities. What little truth he knew at the time, anyway. But Ellen would never sell them out, of that he was certain. She might have had her bones to pick with their father, but she was a woman of principle, and Ellen held no grudges against Sam and Dean. Old differences were settled, forgotten, even before the roadhouse had burned and the Devil's Gate had opened.

Ellen's daughter, Jo, had more reason to be angry with the Winchesters, but Sam knew that she would never tell anyone things about them, either. Wouldn't rat them out. She'd be too proud to, for one thing, even though all three of them had hurt her, each in entirely different ways.

Sam tipped his head back against the wall, taking a deep breath, stomach muscles sore from the shot Carson had taken at him. Who else was there? It wasn't even worth thinking about Bobby giving them up, because that would just flat out never happen; and Missouri? Not a chance.

Discounting people they'd helped along the way and Sam's friends from Stanford—he'd made a point of _never_ talking about his family with _them_—that was pretty much it for the Winchesters' circle of acquaintances.

Which left no one. And that meant Mahoney was being scammed, or that he was truly crazy. Or that Carson was lying. Or a little bit of all of it, plus some things Sam really didn't want to consider just yet.

And he still didn't know what the hell Mahoney wanted.

Frustrated, he smacked his elbows against the wall, chains clanking, arms so deadened he barely felt the impact.

One thing seemed certain: Unless things changed pretty dramatically, and soon, Sam Winchester was royally fucking screwed.

-:- -:- -:-

It was mid-afternoon when Dean pulled the gutless van up to the heavy iron gates, dropping into rattling neutral and tooting the horn briefly, pushing the button on the intercom. The knit cap was pulled down low on his forehead, so when the security camera whirred, adjusting to zoom in on his face, Dean grinned cheekily into it, waggling his fingers in greeting. He didn't think they'd recognize him, if they were working from photos somehow.

There was answering static from the intercom, and then a disembodied voice, curt and clipped. Definitely not the old guy who'd been using Sam's cell, Dean thought.

"Yes?"

"Groceries!" Dean called in his best Friendly Delivery Man voice.

"Where's the regular kid?"

"Oh, uh, Jimmy's got a bit of a runny nose today, so I'm takin' his customers. I hear there'll be hell to pay if Mrs. Vu's tomatoes are bruised."

There was some sort of noise from the other end that might have been a snort, Dean wasn't sure.

"Jimmy's _always_ got a bit of a nose problem, and that old bitch can kiss my ass. Don't tell her I said that. Kitchen's around the side of the big house. Come on in."

Dean saluted, two fingers to his left temple, then shifted into gear as the big gates swung open. The driveway was a straight shot up a slight rise, big lawns on either side and a cluster of buildings at the top. Dean took his time, getting the lay of the land; the delivery van's top speed really gave him no other choice.

He passed a large wooden structure with maybe a half-dozen man-toy trucks and SUVs parked behind it. Barracks for the security team, Dean thought, turning his attention to a couple of storage sheds, maybe, and something that might have been one big-ass garage. The back of the building was to him, though, and all he could see was a window and a single, regular door, set in the middle of the wall.

Then Dean was at the main house, and he knew in his gut—could feel it beyond all doubt—that this was where he would find his brother.

Once he had gotten the second phone call, it had been amazingly easy to identify the man responsible for taking Sam. Guy had given away a lot in their little conversations—he was antique, that much was obvious, and the language he'd used suggested a fair amount of education and culture. Local, no doubt; besides the accent, the calls had been sharp, and there hadn't been that much time to take Sam someplace very far away.

That the old guy had taunted Dean about sending a driver for him spoke of money, and if he was going around kidnapping people, chances were he had a place that was pretty removed from potentially nosy neighbors.

Biggest thing, of course, was his arrogance, because when you were arrogant, you thought you were smarter than everybody else. And then you made all _kinds_ of mistakes, as Dean had learned the hard way. More than once.

Armed with this smattering of educated guesses, all Dean had had to do was park his ass at the counter of a busy diner and ask the right questions. Two good old boys sitting nearby (_and who knew you'd find good old boys in New Hampshire_, Dean wondered, then figured good old boys were _every_where)—anyway, these two guys slurping their cups of java after lunch and recapping last night's storm had been happy to supply him with lots of answers, not the least bit put out that he was a total stranger.

"Yeah, sounds like Mr. Mahoney," Clete had said, scratching a cheek full of gray whiskers. "Couldn't have been him you seen in town, though, 'cause he never leaves the estate."

Grady had agreed wholeheartedly, jowls flapping as he nodded. "Got no need to. Richer 'n Midas, that old cuss. Whatever he needs, it comes to _him_, 'stead of the other 'way 'round. Fact is, I don't know as I've ever even seen him myself, all the years he's lived here. Hell, I'll bet even _God_ goes out there for Mahoney's private Sunday services!"

They had shared a good laugh over that one, Dean picking up more information about where the estate was (_south on the Old Portsmouth road, a few miles beyond town_) and the old man's staffing (_got some Asians don't speak no English to take care of things, but they don't live with him_).

"Plus his con_sul_tants," Grady had added, not so subtly emphasizing the last word.

Dean had conspicuously pulled a twenty out of his wallet and placed it on the countertop, meeting the waitress's eyes as she refilled their cups.

"I think the boys and I are gonna have a little of that blackberry pie to go with our coffee," he'd told her, watching Clete and Grady beam, all three of them getting even more comfortable on their counter-stools. "Consultants? What kind of consultants?"

Clete had steepled his fingers, catching Grady's eye conspiratorially. "Oh, just about a half-dozen security experts, watchin' out for his safety, if you take my meaning."

And Dean had.

Further questioning had uncovered Grady's nephew as the main source of their information, since the boy delivered groceries to the estate almost daily. Funny thing was, Jimmy'd never seen Mr. Mahoney, either.

A subsequent visit to the local market had revealed Jimmy to be in his late teens and quite willing to take Dean's last forty dollars in exchange for directions and the keys to the delivery van. _"All you want to do is see the inside of the house? Dude, if you can get past Mrs. Vu, go for it! But watch out for her, man—feisty old Vietnamese chick would just as soon kill you as look at you. Later, you want to score some blow, I can help you out, man."_

Dean hadn't wasted time feeling guilty about helping Jimmy pay for his drug habit.

Now, he pulled around the side of the house (_hell, it was a fucking mansion, and what could this guy possibly want from the Winchesters?_) and braked to a stop beside what he took to be the kitchen door. No security guy came to meet him, so Dean got out of the van and unloaded two sacks of fresh vegetables, some of which he even recognized. _That right there? Probably some kind of lettuce_, he was pretty sure.

He took the three steps up in one giant stride, opening the door without knocking, startling a tiny Asian woman working at the stove, stirring something in a big pot. She whirled, soup ladle in her hand dripping something brown onto the marble tiles. The aroma in the kitchen was _awesome_, and Dean's stomach rumbled hungrily, despite the blackberry pie he'd eaten earlier.

He gave her the smile that showed almost all of his teeth, dropping the grocery bags onto the massive island with a thud that made her shriek, then jab an accusatory finger at him and at the groceries, rattling off what might have been a really vile curse in Vietnamese. Sure sounded like a curse, anyway—a long one.

Dean put his hands out, patting the air between them.

"Mrs. Vu! Mrs. Vu, is it? Calm down! You're making a mess!"

He pointed to the floor just as she raised the ladle and shook it at him, hot little drops of soup or stew spattering them both, making her even angrier. She was half his height and about as big around as one of his legs, and Dean couldn't help but grin at the sight of her, threatening him with a kitchen utensil. Hell, might've been a different story if she'd had a knife, but a ladle?

Her tone changed to one of dismay at the sight of the brown puddle at her feet, and she moved hastily to catch the remaining drips with her free hand, still talking nonstop.

Dean used a forefinger to wipe an especially large splatter off his cheek, the finger popping into his mouth on auto-pilot.

"Holy—"

Their eyes met and held, and after a moment, she lowered the ladle slightly, falling silent as Dean took a hesitant step toward the stove.

There was a crock of assorted cutlery on the nearby counter, and he selected a wooden spoon from it, making sure that Mrs. Vu could see what he intended and didn't smack him for it. He took a good-sized amount of the brown liquid bubbling in the pot , then blew gently on it until he deemed it safe to sample, keeping his eyes on her the whole time.

The little cook was watching him back, upraised arm dropping slowly to her side, and when he tasted the soup, she might have come close to smiling at the look of intense rapture that spread across Dean's face.

"Oh my God," he groaned. "Mrs. Vu, this is—holy--this is a freakin' work of art!"

The hand holding the ladle fell as they faced one another, Dean smacking his lips appreciatively as he finished off the spoonful, eyes rolling to the ceiling.

"That is the _best_ soup I've ever tasted," he said honestly. Then he dropped the wooden spoon onto the counter, back to business. "Needs more onions, though. Hey, I'm gonna just go find the little boys' room and clean up a bit. This way, right?"

He made some hand-washing motions, then dodged around her to what had to be the entrance to the main part of the house, still flashing his toothy smile while an angry new string of Vietnamese epithets followed him out the door.

-:- -:- -:-

He found himself in a large hallway that ran the length of the house, a series of closed doors along it on either side, grand staircase to the second floor about halfway down. There was nobody around, and Dean wondered briefly about the lax security, until he spotted the cameras mounted against the ceiling. He ducked his head instantly, moving purposefully along the hall like he had every business being there, pausing at the first door past the kitchen and testing the handle.

Unlocked, and only silence behind the door. He pushed it open a crack, peering inside and finding himself at the top of a set of stairs leading into the cellar. If Sam were in the house, they'd be keeping him either upstairs or down, surely not on the main floor, so there was a fifty-fifty chance that Sammy was in the basement.

_Opportunity knocks, you open the door and let it in_, his father's voice instructed, whispering in his head.

_It's already open_, Dean thought, stepping into the cellar at once and pulling the door shut behind him with a gentle snick.

It was quiet, the only noise the soft tap of his boots as he descended the wooden steps. Typical basement, although it was pretty brightly lit. A little moldy, maybe. No security cameras, anyway, and obviously used for storage—tools and gardening equipment hung from pegboard near the staircase, and farther down he could see lots of shelves with books and water-stained cardboard boxes lining the walls. Beyond them were trunks and chests and odd pieces of old furniture, including spindly-legged chairs that didn't look like they'd hold up a good-sized child, much less an adult. Standard basement crap, Dean judged, and he had enough experience with basements to do just that.

There was a door at the far end, closed, and Dean had some experience with that kind of thing, too. _Let's just see what's behind Door Number One._ He felt his pulse quicken as he reached for the knob and turned it gently.

-:- -:- -:-

Sam heard the doorknob move, saw the door open slowly, saw the silhouette of someone backlit by the row of bulbs out in the hall.

"Dean?" he whispered incredulously.

"Sammy!"

Dean stepped inside and shut the door hastily behind him, leaving the room dark once again.

"There's a switch on your right," Sam directed, relief flooding his voice. "Man, how'd you find me?"

Dean found the switch and flicked it on. "My magic combination of brains and luck and charm, natu—" He stopped mid-word when he saw Sam standing chained against the wall. "Dude, what the fuck? You okay?"

Sam shifted from foot to foot impatiently. "Yeah, just get me out of these. They could be back down here at any time."

"Who the hell is this Mahoney?" Dean growled, making quick work of the cuffs around Sam's wrists. Sam groaned as he lowered his arms, and Dean massaged them briskly, encouraging the blood to flow again.

"Thanks," Sam said, still whispering. "Ow! Watch it—skin's kind of chewed up, there. I don't know who he is, Dean, except that he wants something he thinks you have."

"Well, what is it?"

"I don't know. He's a creepy-ass old guy with way too much money on his hands, but maybe not very much time. I think he's sick, and sort of crazy."

"Yeah, well, let's diagnose him later, okay? We gotta get out of here. C'mon, where's the car?"

They were back in the hallway now, headed toward the stairs.

"You don't know where the car is? Dean, where the hell are we? How'd you get here?"

Dean shot his brother a look. "Who're you talking to here, Sam? And how come _you_ don't know where the car is? Didn't they bring it when they brought you?"

"Well, yeah, but—"

"And you couldn't find out where they put it?"

"Dean, it's not like I've just been—" Sam stopped short and gave his brother a push on the shoulder. "Hanging around," he finished. "You're hilarious, dude."

Dean grinned, but his smile faded when Sam suddenly focused on the wall beside them.

"Wait a minute," the younger Winchester said, removing a crowbar from the pegboard and heading back down the hallway.

"Sam!" Dean hissed. "Don't! You'll make too much noise!"

There wasn't nearly as much racket as he'd expected, but Dean kept an anxious eye on the door at the top of the stairs, anticipating discovery at any moment.

Sam was back in less than a minute, hanging the crowbar neatly in its proper place.

"They're not using those again," he said simply, and Dean nodded in approval.

They tiptoed up the stairs, Dean leading their hasty retreat through the main hallway and into the kitchen. Sam hesitated when he saw the little Asian woman stirring something on the stove, turning to eye them venomously. Dean pulled him toward the side door just as she snatched a metal spatula from a nearby crock and brandished it at them, berating them loudly in what sounded to Sam like Vietnamese.

"Onions!" his brother admonished her, making a circle with his right thumb and forefinger. "Don't forget the extra onions!" Then he grabbed hold of Sam's shirt and bulled his way out of the kitchen, little brother in tow.

-:- -:- -:-

There was a guy in some sort of paramilitary outfit checking out the back of the delivery van, and he turned as they ran toward him, his eyes widening in surprise.

"Hey!"

"Thanks for the help unloading," Dean said, swinging with his right, clocking the guy solidly on the jaw.

The guy went down, but he wasn't out.

"Dean, let's go!" Sam shouted, jumping into the passenger seat just as two more paramilitary types emerged from a building down the driveway, checking out the ruckus.

"Ah, fuck!" Dean got the engine started and the van moving sluggishly down the driveway before Sam even got his door closed. "Fucking piece of shit!" Dean tromped on the accelerator, with no evident effect on their speed.

He scattered the security guys by aiming the van directly at them, swerving away at the last moment.

Gunfire erupted behind them as they puttered down the driveway, bullets shattering glass and pinging into metal.

"Go faster!" Sam hollered, and Dean took a moment to shoot him a glare.

"Maybe you'd like to drive?"

Suddenly the van gave a lurch, engine gasping as though mortally wounded before dying altogether. Somebody must have put a round into something vital.

"Let's go!" Sam ordered, counterpoint to his brother's "Move it!"

They flung open the van doors and bailed out while it was still rolling to a halt. Bullets zinged past them and smacked into the asphalt at their feet as they hauled ass down the driveway.

"Sonofa--!"

"You all right?" Sam cried as his brother veered into him, nearly taking them both down. He grabbed Dean by the elbow and continued running. They were almost at the gates.

"I'm not hit!" Dean shouted in response, jerking his arm out of Sam's grasp. "Just go!"

Together they scrambled up the iron bars of the gates, vaulting over the top, flexed knees cushioning the impact of their landing on the opposite side.

"The woods!" Sam said, taking his brother's sleeve again and pulling him across the two-lane road. They plunged down the embankment, weaving their way into the relative stillness of the trees, Mahoney's security team in hot pursuit.

-:- -:- -:-

_TBC. Comments welcomed._


	4. Chapter 4

_**Disclaimer**__: Original content and characters are mine, but the Winchesters are not. I write for my own entertainment, not for profit._

_Thanks for continuing to read—I appreciate it! Chapter 5 should be posted on either Sunday or Monday, and I hope you'll look for it._

-:- -:- -:-

It was impossible to tell the size of the team that dogged them, but Sam heard Carson bellowing orders, and Dean figured there were at least four guys on their tail. It had taken some time, but the Winchesters were losing them.

The brothers crashed through the undergrowth, branches tearing at their clothes, their bodies. The ground was uneven, but Sam's long legs ate it up until he bulldozed through some brush and suddenly found himself going way too fast at the wrong angle down a very steep slope. He lost his footing instantly and tumbled down the rock-littered hillside, completely unable to control his fall. He came up hard against a tree trunk at the bottom of the hill, a breathless shriek tearing its way out of him as something shattered in his lower leg.

Then the pain was so blinding that Sam screamed, the jagged ends of the bones grating against one another, tearing muscle and tendon and flesh.

Dean had skidded to a halt at the lip of the slope, grabbing at branches to halt his forward momentum and keep him from pitching over the edge. Then he heard Sam scream, and all thought of safety—all thought of _any_ kind—fled his brain. He threw himself pell-mell down the hill, Sam's keening directing him, until he dropped to his knees beside his little brother, lying sprawled against a tree.

"Sammy!" Dean felt his throat constrict with fear.

Sam's hands flailed in the dead leaves, his back arching against the pain, eyes shut tight, veins corded in his neck as he writhed on the soggy earth.

"Christ, Sammy," Dean breathed, his stomach knotted, bile rising. The right leg of Sam's jeans was already soaked in blood, from just below the knee, and Sam's foot lay against the trunk of the oak at an angle that could only mean one thing. "Holy Christ."

"Oh, fuck, Dean, it hurts." Sam's voice was strangled as sweat poured from him, pooling in the hollows of his throat, soaking his t-shirt and the collar of his jacket. "Hurts, it hurts!"

Dean grabbed his hands, holding them, squeezing them tight, not knowing what else to do. _Fuck_, this was bad! Sam wasn't one to cry out loud, no matter how much pain he was….

The memory flashed—Sam sinking quietly to his knees in the mud at Cold Oak, eyes dimming, spinal cord severed—and Dean gasped harshly.

_No, this wasn't like that!_

"Ah, God! Dean!" Tears streamed from Sam's eyes as he thrashed in his brother's grasp.

"I know, Sammy, shhh. I got you—lie still, man. It's gonna be all right."

He tried to mask the fright in his voice, the tension; tried to speak the way their father had so long ago, each time he'd been confronted with his little boys' terrors, both the real and the imagined. The man had been a master at laying their fears to rest, using his body and voice and words to soothe, to calm, to exorcise whatever darkness haunted them, until everything was all right again. Holding them close enough they could feel the rumble of his chest when he spoke, capturing their eyes with his so they could read the love and confidence there, letting them know that there was nothing to be scared of, that everything was under control. That Daddy was there and would keep them safe from harm.

Hell, the man had taught his sons to face their fears, too; toughened them up quickly against bad things in the dark and in the daylight; turned them into warriors capable of standing strong and fast in desperate situations. Trained them to roll with the punches or take the hits without flinching.

Their dad was dead, now, and Dean knew he was a poor substitute for John Winchester. Still, for Sam's sake, he had to try. He swallowed his panic and began again.

"Everything's gonna be okay, dude. 'Sall right. Hey! Hey, can you look at me, man? Sammy? You're going to be all right, I promise you." Dean shot a hasty glance back up the hill, expecting to see the security team cresting the rise at any second. "Shh, Sammy. Shhh. You gotta be quiet now, okay? Shhhh. We're going to get you out of here, get you taken care of, I promise. But first, we gotta wait out those sonsofbitches hunting us."

"S-sorry. 'M sorry, Dean. Oh fuck, oh Christ!" Sam sobbed, beyond hearing, beyond caring about being heard. His breathing was ragged, and he ripped his hands from Dean's, fingers tangling in Dean's shirts, in the cord of Dean's necklace, as he caught hold of his brother's leather jacket in a death-grip.

Dean bit his lip, tried to pull away before Sam choked him. From beyond the top of the hill, he heard shouting, and knew that their trackers would be on them in moments unless he did something. Maybe even _if_ he did something.

Steeling himself for what he was about to do (_had to do!_), Dean disengaged from his brother and drew back a fist. He caught Sam hard in the jaw, and Sam slumped immediately, unconscious in mid-sob.

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean muttered, whipping out of his jacket and button-down, tearing a sleeve off the shirt and turning his attention back to Sam's leg. He couldn't risk cutting open the heavy denim around the wound, tearing the fabric where the bones had broken through, could only bind it in hopes of stopping the bleeding. Gingerly, Dean wrapped the shirt-sleeve around Sam's leg, over and above the gash in his jeans, chanting a whispered litany of prayers and oaths all the while that Sam wouldn't wake up. Not now, not yet.

There was more shouting beyond the top of the hill, and Dean made his choice. He put a rough palm against Sam's cheek for just a moment, then snatched his jacket and shirt off the ground and faded away into the undergrowth, just as five men with rifles crested the hilltop.

They were silhouetted there, and if Dean had had a rifle of his own, he could have taken out two or three of them before anyone was the wiser, he reflected bitterly. Moving quietly through the bracken to flank them, he shrugged back into the shirt and jacket, reaching to the small of his back for the Glock.

It was gone. _Fuck!_ He must have lost it sometime during their escape, probably on the hill, somewhere. Could anything else go wrong on this effing gig?

"There's one of them!" a stocky Hispanic-looking man cried, pointing down at Sam. "Looks like he's out of it."

"Where's the other guy?" another one barked, and from his pompous bearing, Dean pegged him instantly as the leader of the little commando team.

"Don't see him, sir." The lanky kid on the near side scanned the slope carefully, but Dean hugged the ground as the kid's eyes swept over him, and he passed unseen.

"Chickenshit asshole probably took off without this guy. Let's move," the leader growled, waving his men down the hill toward where Sam lay.

Only four of them reached the bottom, and one of those dropped his rifle when Dean's arm snaked around his throat in a choke-hold. It fell to the ground beside the one Dean had taken from the tall kid when he'd dropped him in his tracks.

"Hold it right there or I'll break his neck!" Dean promised, the Hispanic guy sputtering in his tightening grasp.

The three others snapped their rifles to their shoulders, peered down barrels pointed directly at their team-member's heart or head. The guy went dead-still, his eyes widening, his hands clamped around Dean's strong forearm.

"Don't—shoot!" he begged, almost gagging.

A tense moment passed, and then the burly leader snickered, relaxing a bit. The other two kept their rifles aimed. "Looks like we got us a Mexican standoff. Ain't that right, Gonzalez?"

"I'm P-puerto Rican, s-sir."

"You're gonna be dead if your buddies don't lower their weapons," Dean said tightly, then locked eyes with the big man. "You. You the head of F-Troop, here?"

"Name's Carson," the man replied. "Where's Franklin?"

"Takin' a nap. Carson, I'm gonna make you a little deal."

"Well, ain't you got a pair of big brass ones."

Dean stared at him coldly. "What I got is a guy here who's about to get his neck broke if you don't shut the fuck up and listen."

Carson's eyes narrowed. "Go," he said finally.

"Mahoney wants something I've got, right? And he's got no beef with Sam. You get him on the horn—" Dean jerked his chin at the walkie-talkie clipped to Carson's belt—"and tell him I'll come in quietly. I'll give him whatever he wants."

"And the deal?"

"Sam gets immediate medical help, and goes free."

"What's wrong with him?"

"Leg's busted," Dean said, "and you boys are gonna carry him out of here like he's your mama's finest china. Then he gets put in an ambulance and taken to the hospital over at the county seat. And none of you sonsofbitches ever touches him again."

Carson pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Why don't I just shoot him now, let you kill Gonzalez, and then we take you down next?"

"Because you're not as stupid as you look," Dean answered. "Close, but not quite. Fact is, you wouldn't have a clue in hell how to find your ass with both hands tied behind your back, much less know what it is that Mahoney wants with me. You can't take the chance of killing me until he gets whatever that is, right? And the only way I'm comin' peaceful is if we deal, and Sam goes free."

Carson thought it over for another moment, trying to read Dean's eyes. Then he glanced over his shoulder to where Sam lay prone beneath the tree, still unconscious. Finally, he lowered his rifle.

"Butler, keep him covered. Haskell, if he moves, shoot that kid."

The dark-haired man closest to Sam repositioned himself, the end of his rifle barrel inches from Sam's temple. Gonzalez wheezed louder as Dean tightened his choke-hold.

"Everybody just play nice," Carson soothed. He reached slowly for the walkie-talkie at his belt, holding it up and thumbing the transmission switch.

"Steinman, this is Carson. Do you read?"

He turned, keeping his head bent so that he could keep an eye on Dean, talking low so that the young hunter could hear only mutters.

"Hey!" Dean snapped, and Carson raised a placating hand, turning back to him.

"I need Mr. Mahoney," he said into the transceiver. "We've got a little situation here."

There was a delay while Steinman located Mahoney, and another delay while Dean negotiated the deal through Carson. The old man was livid that the security team had failed him, considering Dean's terms waspishly at first, then with begrudging acceptance. All the while, Sam never stirred.

"You'll give Mr. Mahoney what he wants, no problems, no questions?" Carson relayed, and Dean nodded.

"My brother goes free, and he has my word."

Carson repeated the message, and there was a long pause. Dean wondered for a moment whether they'd lost contact, but Carson finally nodded.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Mahoney. I understand. Carson out."

"It's the twenty-first century, Carson," Dean said, adjusting his grip on Gonzalez. "Where the hell's your cell phone?"

"Shut up," Carson retorted. "The ambulance should be at the compound in fifteen minutes."

"Can't let you boys just stand around all day," Dean said, his plans about how to move Sam changing on the fly. He couldn't trust his brother's life with these jokers, no way, no how. "Hey, Butler, put down your rifle, kick it over here and take your belt off."

"Fuck that shit!" the grey-haired man snorted.

"Quit jacking around and do it!" Dean's voice was steel, and Gonzalez's face went suddenly purple as the arm around his throat tightened. "Drop the rifle, take your belt off and use it to tie Carson's hands around that tree. Now, or this guy's neck snaps!"

Slowly, begrudgingly, Butler complied, Carson cursing the entire time. Dean then had Haskell secure Butler to another tree, and enlisted Gonzalez's reluctant aid in trussing Haskell.

"What about Franklin?" Gonzalez asked, still massaging his throat.

"He'll be fine," Dean told him, slinging four of the rifles out into the surrounding brush and slipping his arm through the strap on the fifth. "It'll take him a while, but he'll probably get loose first, then come for these assholes. Now come on—we gotta get my brother outta here."

"How the hell we gonna carry him, man? We ain't got a stretcher, and the gate's at least two miles from here!"

Dean rubbed a hand across his mouth. There were no good options; he just knew he couldn't trust Carson or the other men to move Sam. It was bad enough he had to trust Gonzalez.

"Two-person arm carry," he decided quickly, adding it to Gonzalez's credit that though he raised his eyebrows, the man said nothing further.

Together they maneuvered Sam into a sitting position, Dean kneeling on his right and Gonzalez on his left, placing Sam's arms over their shoulders. As they each worked one hand beneath his thighs, Sam began to stir, crying out as they jostled his injured leg.

"Need a little help here, Sammy," Dean said softly, he and Gonzalez locking grips around each other's wrists as they prepared to lift Sam from the ground. "Can you just hang on for me?" He barely felt his brother's response, a slight tensing of Sam's arm around him. "Good boy, Sammy. C'mon, Gonzalez, grab my shoulder."

Gonzalez complied quickly, and Dean took hold of Gonzalez's shoulder, their arms crossing behind Sam's back. With this, and with their grips still locked under his thighs, they created a chair in which Sam sat, his head lolling as he mewled in senseless agony.

"Attaboy, Sam," Dean crooned. "Gonna get you out of here, get you taken care of. But you gotta get ready, 'cause this ain't gonna be easy. All right, Gonzalez. On three."

Sam screamed again when they rose to their feet, the sound ripping through Dean like a buzz-saw before Sam passed out once more, toppling limply against Dean's shoulder.

"Holy shit!" Gonzalez said in awe, and Dean shot him a warning glance.

The stocky man was a few inches shorter than he was, which made carrying Sam all the more awkward. And more dangerous.

"Just move," Dean said through gritted teeth, turning slightly to head back up the hill.

Gonzalez stopped him. "No, man—this way here's easier. Won't hurt him so bad."

Dean cut him another look, reading the man's honesty in his eyes.

"Thanks."

Behind them, Carson laughed. "See you back at the house, Winchester!" he taunted. "We'll probably beat you there!"

-:- -:- -:-

They met the ambulance on the road, about half a mile from the gates, two guys in EMT uniforms parking hurriedly and helping Dean and Gonzalez lay Sam onto a stretcher they pulled from the back of the vehicle.

Dean watched anxiously as one of the EMTs took Sam's vitals, spewing numbers into a shoulder mic and placing an oxygen mask over the injured man's mouth and nose.

Then the other paramedic sliced open the leg of Sam's jeans, and Dean's stomach twisted.

"Holy shit," Gonzalez whispered again, watching the EMTs carefully.

The flesh of Sam's right calf was shredded, streaked with fresh and clotted blood, raw and ugly where bone had broken through. Sam pressed back hard into the head-rest, teeth bared in agony, breath hissing in and out between them.

"Easy, Sammy, easy" Dean said quietly, placing his palm against his brother's forehead to calm him.

"Sedation, traction and transportation; copy that," the EMT on the radio said as his partner strapped Sam onto the stretcher. He pulled an ampoule of clear liquid and a hypodermic needle out of a small cabinet, quickly preparing the injection and shooting it into a vein in the back of Sam's left hand.

"What was that?" Dean demanded, but Sam relaxed visibly, his breathing slowing, and the question went unanswered.

"Let us do our job, sir," the man tightening the straps said. "Let's go!"

The two EMTs loaded the stretcher into the ambulance, one accompanying Sam in the back and the other slamming the door shut, then racing to the front and getting inside. The siren wailed as soon as the driver turned the key in the ignition, and the ambulance sped away from the shoulder of the road in a whirl of mud and gravel, heading back past the compound and toward town.

His face impassive, Dean could only watch in silence as his brother left him again.

Carson and his team burst out of the woods, re-armed and shouting. Dean allowed them to wrestle him to the ground, objecting with an oath only when Carson kicked him in the kidney, hard enough he figured he'd be pissing blood for a week. They hauled Dean to his feet, Gonzalez taking the rifle off his shoulder, and propelled him down the road toward the gates of Mahoney's compound.

-:- -:- -:-

In another five minutes, they were in the house, in a big, square room with antique furniture, marble floors and rugs that looked very expensive. Felt very expensive, too, Dean thought when Carson kicked his feet out from under him and he landed face-first in the plush nap. Gave great rug-burn.

Franklin and Butler hauled him up again, everyone suddenly standing alert and still, all eyes on the entry, and Dean straightened in their grasp, looking to see what had caused the sudden change in attention.

_Ah. Must be Mahoney._

"Mr. Winchester, I presume," the old man hissed, almost gliding into the room, wearing a pricey suit and shiny shoes. There was something not quite right about his eyes, a glassiness in the rheumy blue that Dean couldn't place. Drugs, maybe. Or madness.

Dean felt his hackles rise. Guy was ancient, he thought; ninety if he was a day. Almost as wrinkled as that emperor dude in the original "Star Wars" movies. Who was it? Pal-something—yeah, Palpitations, that was it. Kinda sounded like him, too.

The geezer continued, self-satisfaction written on every inch of him. "Please allow me to introduce myself. I'm—"

Dean snorted. "'A man of wealth and taste.' Fuck you, Mahoney," he said simply, and Carson struck him sharply across the face.

Moving with the blow, Dean erupted, tearing away from Franklin and Butler, grabbing Carson's wrist and twisting the man's arm sharply up behind his back.

For a second, everyone froze, and Dean could hear Mahoney's breath rattling in his throat and chest from across the room. Then the old man pointed a gnarled finger at him accusingly.

"You said you'd play by the rules, Mr. Winchester, and you _made_ the rules. Your brother is being tended to, which was my part of our deal. What about your part? Are you a man of your word?"

It took Dean a long moment to decide. Finally, glowering, he released Carson, shoving the big man away roughly, causing him to stumble. Carson barely maintained his balance, grabbing at his boss's suit-jacket and nearly taking them both to the floor, Mahoney tottering precariously as Gonzalez leaped forward to steady him.

Face red, Carson collected himself, ready to lunge at Dean until Mahoney stopped with him a quick motion. Instead, he signaled to Haskell and Butler, and they immediately stepped up, grabbing Dean by the arms.

"What the hell is it you want, Mahoney?" Dean said angrily, suddenly tired beyond his own comprehension of playing a game he could not name.

The old man smiled, revealing crooked, discolored teeth that struck Dean as incongruent with the rest of the man's polished appearance. _Probably not the time to lecture the man on oral hygiene_, he decided.

"What I want is something without price," Mahoney hissed sibilantly, a strange new light in his eyes, greed twisting the smile into a leer. He moved close, and Dean turned his head away in disgust as the old man reached up to fumble at Dean's face and hair, tugging at the collar of his shirt, perfectly shaped nails raking his throat as Mahoney's arthritic fingers caught at the leather cord around Dean's neck. Spittle appeared in the corners of Mahoney's mouth as he grunted with frustrated effort, and Dean couldn't hold back a noise of revulsion at the mad intensity with which the old man pawed him.

Then he felt an abrupt chill as Mahoney's intent became clear.

The amulet.

Suddenly it was free from the fabric of the young hunter's clothing, the horned visage dangling unfettered on his chest, and Mahoney's eyes grew wide. As though enthralled, he wrapped the bronze charm in trembling fingers, drawing in a sharp gasp of pleasure or pain, Dean couldn't tell which.

"You gotta be kiddin' me," Dean said, and the two men holding him tightened their grips.

"I've searched for years." Mahoney's voice was a whisper. "To find it on someone of your ilk, as worthless as you, was almost unbearable."

Dean huffed a laugh he did not feel. "I found it in a junk store," he lied, knowing he wasn't fooling anyone. "What's it to you, old man?"

This time, it was Mahoney who struck him in the face. "You won't speak of it with such disrespect!" he barked, and Carson grabbed a fistful of Dean's hair, jerking his head back, baring his throat.

"Get it off him," Mahoney ordered, and Dean felt the burn of the leather around his neck as Carson yanked the cord free.

"Don't touch the talisman! Don't touch it! Give it to me!" Mahoney shrilled, almost dancing in his impatience to have the charm. He cupped his hands to receive it, closing them over it as soon as it was safely in his grasp, expression transformed suddenly from madness to rapture.

"Ahh," he cooed, drawing his hands to his mouth and whispering into them, as if telling secrets to the graven bronze head. "At last I have you, at last!"

Dean shot a look at Carson, whose hand was still clenched tight in Dean's hair. "Your boss a nut-job?" he asked.

Carson snorted, releasing his hold and seeming about to speak when Mahoney stopped him cold with a sudden glare, still caressing the amulet.

"Put him with the other one," the old man demanded, "Then have the doctor meet me in the study."

Dean felt his skin prickle at Mahoney's words.

"Wait. What?"

Carson laughed. "You didn't seriously think your brother was going anywhere?" the burly man jeered as Dean began to struggle against the two guards who held him.

"Mahoney, you son of a bitch!" Dean spat in fury. "The deal was Sam for me—he goes to the hospital, and then he goes free!"

The old man smiled, rubbing his cheek against his still-cupped hands as though caressing a kitten. "I asked you if you were a man of your word, Mr. Winchester," he said. "You never thought to ask me the same question. The ambulance you saw is part of my fleet, and one of the men who played EMT is Dr. Blaine, my personal physician. The other is a member of my security team. They drove your brother down the road and back again. I trust he's safely re-settled in the basement by this time, waiting for you to join him."

"He needs medical treatment!"

Carson laughed again. "Not so smart now, are you, Winchester? You and your brother are dead men, once Mr. Mahoney is done with you. I'm gonna enjoy taking you both out myself."

"Don't count on it, you fucked-up mother," Dean seethed, "but you give it your best shot, just as soon as I'm finished with your boss."

Another man entered—Dean recognized him as the one who had driven the ambulance—and joined the two holding the young hunter.

Cursing, Dean threw his weight backward into their grasp, lashing out with his feet in an attempt to reach Mahoney. With Carson's added weight, the four men wrestled him to the floor on his belly, trapping him there until Carson grabbed his hair again and smacked his forehead twice against the floor, the marble this time, stunning him.

The men climbed off him, regaining their feet, panting, hovering as Dean somehow found the strength to roll dazedly onto his back. He squinted up at Mahoney through unfocused eyes.

"Ma-Mahoney," he slurred, senses reeling, ""m gonna k-kill you."

"No, you won't," the old man said, shaking his head in mock pity and dangling the amulet on its cord like a pendulum before him. "Now you can't."

-:- -:- -:-

They tethered his wrists with a tie-strip and hurled Dean into the same room where he'd found Sam only hours ago. It was darkened, but Dean could see the mangled chains high on the wall, just before Carson kicked him savagely in the ribs and slammed the door as the security team left, locking it shut. Head swimming, body aching from the blows he'd taken, Dean gathered himself and rose to hands and knees, waiting for the dizziness to pass before he tried to stand.

"Mahoney!" he shouted over the buzz in his ears. "It won't help you!"

He didn't expect an answer, of course; knew that Mahoney hadn't heard, and probably wouldn't have answered anyway. But there was a muffled sound from close by, and Dean suddenly remembered the old man's words.

"Sammy?"

With a groan, Dean searched the room with his eyes, climbing painfully to his feet and groaning again when he saw his brother's lanky form laid out on the floor beneath the far wall. Dean launched himself forward.

"Sam!"

Sam was unconscious and obviously still in pain, despite the sedative he'd been given. At least, Dean had believed it was a sedative when he'd watched the EMT inject it into his brother's vein—now, he wasn't so sure. Sam's face was pinched, his breathing quick and shallow, reminding Dean of the effect that bad nightmares had once had on his little brother. Instinctively, he smoothed the hair back off Sam's brow, jaw clenching at the warmth he felt there. Sam whimpered once, uneasy, pressing into Dean's hand for comfort.

"Aw, Sammy," Dean said softly, eying the bandaging and splint protecting his brother's badly injured leg. Those had been professionally applied, from what he could tell, but Sam still needed to get to a hospital. Soon. Infection was common in open fractures, and could change them from bad to worse almost without warning.

After a moment of consideration, Dean reached down to his left sock, searching the cuff for what he carried there. Slapdash job that idiot Carson had done, searching him. They'd taken the keys to the Impala, of course, but that was all they'd found.

Holding the little blade between the toes of his boots, Dean cut quickly through the plastic tie-strip that bound his hands together. He thought briefly about leaving the knife for Sam but decided against it. In Sam's present condition, there was a chance he'd accidentally hurt himself with it, and that was a risk Dean wasn't willing to take. He sheared through the tie around Sam's wrists, releasing them, then stashed the blade back in his sock.

Dean shrugged out of his jacket and draped it carefully over the younger man's upper body, then used his outer shirt to create a pillow of sorts, gently placing it under Sam's head. His brother moaned again, his face contorting at the disturbance, but he settled quickly at Dean's soothing, whispered "hushhh."

"'Sall right, Sam," Dean murmured. "Gonna be all right. Time to go."

He gave Sam a pat on the shoulder that comforted neither of them. Then Dean got to his feet and headed for the door, lock-pick in his hand and a smile of grim determination on his face.

-:- -:- -:-

_TBC. Comments welcomed._


	5. Chapter 5

_**Disclaimer**__: Original content and characters are mine, but the Winchesters are not. I write for my own entertainment, not for profit._

_Thanks for reading! I'm so honored and humbled and grateful for your continued interest!  
_

-:- -:- -:-

Dean ignored the pounding knot on his forehead he'd gotten when Carson slammed his face into the floor. Considering Carson's professional sloppiness, Dean did not expect that the man would have left a guard on the locked door. _Crusker's a fuckin' Einstein, compared to that moron sonofabitch_, he thought

He pressed his ear against the painted wood, listening carefully. Nothing. Cautiously, Dean tested the handle, waiting for activity from the hallway. Again, nothing. Satisfied, he made quick work with the pick, cracking the door open and peering out before stepping silently from the room. He cast a hasty look back at Sam, refusing to think about the fact that he was leaving his injured brother alone in the hands of a madman. Then he pressed the door closed and re-locked it.

It appeared Carson hadn't learned any lessons from the first time the Winchesters had made their escape. As Dean had anticipated, no guards were posted, and he moved quickly past shelves piled high with musty stacks of boxes and books, this time noticing the spines on some of the larger volumes. _Ancient Cultures and Religions. The Healing Touch of the Gods. Vita Aeturnus._

A frown drew his brows together as he considered what Mahoney had taken from him.

There was just no way the old man could--

At the bottom of the staircase, he paused, hearing the rumble of voices from the first floor. Carson's, for sure, and one Dean thought might belong to the doctor. He climbed the risers, quick and quiet, pausing again at the top landing and listening intently.

"He's resting, now," the second man said. "He doesn't want to be disturbed."

"Doc, what's this all about?" Carson asked. "What's the big deal about that necklace?"

"You know I can't answer that. You'll have to ask Mr. Mahoney."

"C'mon, the old coot's off his rocker. He's not going to snap out of this, right? I've got a right to know, Doc—kidnapping's a federal offense, but you know as well as I do that he's not going to let those poor sonsofbitches go. You're just as involved in all this as any of us, man. We go down? It'll be as accessories to murder."

There was a long pause, then, before the doctor sighed nervously, and Dean could almost see the man licking his lips.

"All right," he said finally. "Mr. Mahoney believes that the charm has some sort of curative power, and that not only will it heal him, it will keep him from death as long as he has it in his possession. This kind of fantasy is not unusual in someone in the end-stages of illness, but his degree of belief and fixation is definitely abnormal. He wants to keep those young men as prisoners until he's certain they're of no further use, and I believe it is his plan, then, to kill them. Mr. Carson, it's not too late for us to help those boys and go to the authorities ourselves."

Carson laughed harshly. "Now you're working your own fantasy, Blaine. One way or another, I'm fucked, and so are you. The best we can hope to get out of this deal is to stick it through until Mahoney's dead, then take what we can and clear out. Go underground, start fresh somewhere far away. Before anyone finds the bodies."

"Mr. Mahoney is still quite strong," the doctor replied, "despite his apparent diminished mental capacity."

"Still, you never know when he might trip and fall down the stairs. Choke on his prune juice, slip in the tub—there's lots of ways something bad can happen, Doc. You oughtta know, right? An accidental overdose, maybe, like that one in…where is it you're from? Atlanta?" Carson's laugh was nasty, now, and Dean felt his hands clench involuntarily.

"Are you suggesting that I—that we—no, Mr. Carson, I won't do it!" the doctor sputtered.

"I'm not suggesting anything," Carson replied cagily. "I'm just saying that accidents happen."

There was the sound of fast-approaching footsteps, then, and Dean shrank back from the door, pressing himself against the wall.

"Mr. Carson, Dr. Blaine." Dean recognized Haskell's voice. "Mr. Mahoney wants to see both of you, right now."

"Fuck," Carson muttered.

More footsteps, then, retreating this time, and Dean waited one second longer before slipping out into the first floor-proper, where long shadows announced the day's waning.

He made his way quickly but cautiously to the kitchen. The rattle of pans and an enticing aroma told him that dinner was being prepared, and his stomach rumbled in response. A fast peek showed the Vietnamese cook hard at work, a pile of vegetables on the chopping block, a sharp knife making quick work of the mincing and slicing. Dean did a double-take—Mrs. Vu was chopping an onion, tears streaming down her face.

He entered the kitchen on booted tiptoes, but she saw him immediately, of course. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and glared at him, shaking the knife at him reprovingly, spitting out something high-pitched, clipped and clearly angry. They didn't need to speak the same language—Dean got the message.

She knew. Knew he didn't belong here; knew he meant trouble. But did she know the kind of monster she worked for?

Dean held his hands out from his sides, no beseeching and no bullshit in his eyes or on his face, his own message just as patent.

Mrs. Vu's voice trailed off, her doubt and suspicion and accusation evident from her expression. Then, with a sniff, she wiped her eyes again with her sleeve and returned to chopping the onions.

Dean moved swiftly to the mansion's back door and slipped outside into the growing darkness.

-:- -:- -:-

He fought hard not to think of Sam, lying on the cold floor of the basement room, agonized by the broken bones in his leg, the torn skin of his calf. It was impossible not to think of him. Sam had been Dean's responsibility for his whole life, and to abandon him now—

No, _not_ abandon! Dean stomped down hard on the traitorous thought. He would _never_ do that to Sam, no matter how much it felt like that was exactly what he was doing.

_Focus, Dean, dammit!_

He shook his head, reawakening the throb there. What were his objectives? He forced himself to list them, one by one, shoving Sam to the back of his mind. (_Sam_.)

First, stay free; second, find the car. There were weapons there, and a means of escape. No way could he drive it off Mahoney's compound without raising an alarm, alerting everyone that he was free. But he couldn't get his brother out (_Sam!_) without a vehicle of some kind. And he couldn't kill every sonofabitch in that house who had hurt his brother (_Sammy!_) without weapons. Starting with Mahoney. Or Carson. Fuck it, it didn't matter; they were all dead men.

Keeping an eye peeled for security personnel, Dean worked his way cautiously to the biggest outbuilding, certain from the looks of it that it was a garage. Mahoney had mentioned a fleet of vehicles, and maybe the Impala was parked among them. _Stick to the priorities, Winchester_.

What would happen to Sam if they discovered his brother was gone before Dean had a chance to prepare? That was the biggest gamble, since Mahoney had the amulet. Apparently, that was all he wanted, so now that he had it, would he let Sam go? It seemed unlikely, given what the doctor had said about the old man's plans. And there was no way that Mahoney could work whatever mojo he had planned, not without--. More likely he'd keep Sammy hostage, use him to lure his big brother back in again and then kill them both.

Dean sneered, the doctor's words replaying in his aching head. If Mahoney thought he could get rid of the Winchesters that easily, the old man was in for a painful surprise.

Crouching low as he neared the outbuilding, Dean came up under the window to peer inside. The garage, as he'd expected, with room for six vehicles; although there were no lights on, he could see the first of what was likely to be three wide automatic doors on the opposite wall, just past the Caddy and the Hummer. The ambulance blocked his view of whatever lay beyond it. _If nothin' else, I'm sure as hell gonna slash me a few tires_, Dean thought.

He made a 180-degree check behind him for guards, then slipped into the garage through the back door, finding what he was looking for in the far-side bay.

"Oh, Baby," he whispered in relief, moving swiftly to the black Impala, running his hands along her rear-quarter panel by way of greeting, wincing as he jerked open the trunk, checking under the false bottom to make sure she was still fully loaded. He fed a fresh clip into the throwaway Glock and Sam's favorite Browning, stashing the Glock at the small of his back and tucking the Browning into the top of his boot, readjusting it when the barrel bit into his ankle-bone. _Damn boots oughtta have pockets_, he thought.

Dean added a few more tools to his arsenal, then withdrew a Bowie knife and swiftly made his way among the other vehicles, driving the blade into each tire and leaving an irreparable gash, stopping briefly to snake something from the Caddy's visor.

There was a muffled shout from outside, followed quickly by a number of loud voices, Carson's among them, and Dean knew his absence had been discovered. Realized suddenly he hadn't even checked the garage for a security camera—yep, there it was. _Stupid!_ With a curse he ran back to the Impala, slamming the trunk closed and diving quickly into the driver's seat. Keys were inside the house, somewhere—they'd managed to find those on him. Still, they'd already cut the ignition wires when they'd taken the car. Dean struck the ends together until the engine turned over, filling the garage with a deep, throaty rumble.

The building's back door crashed open and Butler and Steinman vaulted inside, guns at the ready. Dean didn't wait to see what would happen next. He shifted into gear and stomped on the accelerator, the Impala leaping forward, grill shredding through the automatic door like a bullet through paper. Gunfire erupted behind him, but Dean kept his eyes on the road as he barreled down the long drive to the main road, big gates swinging open when he aimed the remote at them, swinging closed again when he had passed.

Only when he knew for certain that there would be no pursuit did he slow down, finally pulling over to the shoulder to give his hands a chance to stop shaking. From his vantage, he could still see the roof of the big house through the trees, could imagine what would be happening inside now that he'd made his escape.

Dean closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the steering wheel, willing himself not to think. But willing didn't work, and the truth of what he'd just done was bitter in his mouth, in his chest.

_Oh, Sam_.

-:- -:- -:-

"Dean?"

Muzzily, Sam raised his head, gasping aloud as pain exploded in his broken leg. He curled to his side, eyes squeezed tight against the agony, hands grasping for the injured limb, fingers finding and fumbling over something he finally determined was a splint.

Forcing his eyes open, Sam realized dimly that he was back in the basement room of Mahoney's house, mangled chains hanging empty along the wall overhead, something warm and fairly heavy lying against his chest. A familiar smell of leather and—

"Dean."

Allowing his eyes to close again, Sam gripped his brother's jacket, relieved beyond all logic at its touch. No way Dean was anywhere nearby—the house was much too quiet for that—which meant he was still out there, somewhere, or else…no, still out there, definitely, with a plan for dealing with this whole jacked-up situation. Sam's job was to be ready when it came time to go.

Steeling himself, Sam set about the arduous task of sitting upright, each movement eliciting fresh jolts of pain. Once he had his left shoulder propped against the wall, he realized he was pretty much screwed—there was nothing more he could do without jarring his leg, and that was an agony he'd just as soon never face, in all honesty.

He'd found Dean's shirt, folded hastily and lying beneath his head, and used it to wipe the sweat from his face as he leaned at an uncomfortable angle against the wall. God, he'd kill for a drink of water, he thought. Gingerly, he shifted the weight of his body so he could reach the splint, giving it a hesitant tug.

_FuckfuckfuckFUCK! _

Blades of pain lanced through his leg, and Sam threw his head back against the wall in a silent scream, pounding a fist against the floor to distract himself from the agony. He didn't realize he was crying until he tasted the salt in the corners of his mouth, and the tears made him furious as he rode out the red waves surging through him.

It was some time before he could breathe again, see again, think again, and then, just as he forced himself to reconsider the need to move (_I'm gonna be ready, Dean_), he heard angry shouts and the pounding of booted feet down the stairs and along the hallway.

The door was yanked open, bright light flooding in and bringing fresh tears to his eyes as Carson charged into the room, murder on his face.

"You!" he spat, stabbing a finger at Sam. "You better hope you die fast!"

The door slammed shut again and Carson ran heavily back up the stairs, leaving Sam alone to wonder what the hell had happened. But there was no need to wonder, really, Sam reflected, exhausted suddenly and lying slowly back down on his side. What had happened was Dean, he was certain.

Bunching his brother's shirt back under his head and draping the leather jacket over him, nestling into its soft warmth, Sam let his eyes drift closed again as he headed gratefully back into oblivion.

-:- -:- -:-

He didn't know how long he'd lain there when rough hands grabbed him, jerking him upright, pain screaming through him from his leg to his gut and out his mouth before he could stop it, broken bones shifting against one another.

"My God, take it easy!" he heard the doctor say over the noise of his own hyperventilation.

"Get up, kid," Carson snarled, looking down at him over Haskell's shoulder, but the pain was too much, too mu---

-:- -:- -:-

He felt the sting of a hypodermic needle biting into the corded vein in the crook of his elbow.

"It's only an antibiotic," he heard someone say. "Mr. Mahoney says no pain-killers."

-:- -:- -:-

He was lying on some sort of couch, in a room he didn't recognize, Carson and the doctor floating in and out of his vision. It might have been daytime.

"Look, Blaine, Mahoney needs him coherent," Carson snapped.

"Abusing that boy further will _not_ make him coherent!" Dr. Blaine retorted. "I've got to reduce that fracture, or he's not going to be of any use to anyone!"

-:- -:- -:-

The next time he awoke, Mahoney's sour breath was in his face.

"His eyes are open, doctor. Can he speak? I need him to speak."

-:- -:- -:-

There was a red explosion of pain, howling out of his leg and ripping through him, eliciting flashbacks of old war movies with land-mines and Bouncing Betties, bodies flying to pieces in evaporating mists of blood. Sam screamed mindlessly until his throat was shredded, his voice just a husk. Then the pain eased slightly, and he heard the doctor say, "There. That did it."

Sam blacked out.

-:- -:- -:-

Carson's voice again, almost whining.

"Mr. Mahoney, that other guy's gone and he ain't coming back. What do you need him for, anyway? You got what you wanted, didn't you?"

Mahoney's reply was frantic and furious. "It isn't working. I need him to tell me how it works!"

_Dean_, Sam thought before consciousness drifted away.

-:- -:- -:-

Something cool and wet pressed against his lips, and Sam jerked his head to the side, finally coming around enough to realize that Dr. Blaine knelt beside him and was holding a glass of water to his mouth. Sam leaned forward enough to take a small sip, holding it on his tongue for just a moment before allowing it to trickle down his throat. It tasted like heaven.

He tried to gulp more, then, but the doctor moved the glass away quickly.

"Easy—just a little at a time, or it will come back up. Do you understand me?"

"Y-yes," Sam rasped, sipping slowly when Blaine returned the glass to his lips. The doctor only allowed him a few swallows before putting the glass on a table out of Sam's view. Table or _some_thing wooden, anyway—Sam heard the telltale _clunk_ as the glass was set down.

"I've set and re-splinted your leg," Dr. Blaine said. "It's not done right, but it's the best I could manage, under the circumstances. You've had a shot of morphine sulfate, even though I was under orders not to give you any pain-killer. It won't last long. I'm sorry."

"My brother?" There was gravel in his throat. "Where is he?"

"We've neither seen nor heard from him in nearly sixteen hours. Mr. Mahoney is frantic with worry."

Sam frowned, looking around him for the first time. He was lying on a chaise longue, he realized, reclining against its slanted back, hands bound in front of him. His left leg dangled over the end of the chaise, but his right leg—the broken one, throbbing furiously—rested on an ottoman of some kind. There were other furniture pieces here and there, mostly antiques, but the room seemed designed more for show than for functionality. He doubted it was used very often. Tatters of gray daylight spilled in around heavy damask drapes.

"Why?" Sam asked hoarsely.

Blaine seemed nonplussed. "Why what?"

"Why is Mahoney…worried…about my brother?"

"Oh." The doctor shifted uncomfortably. "I believe your brother has given Mr. Mahoney something, and Mr. Mahoney doesn't know how to use it."

It was Sam's turn to be confused. "What? Dean doesn't have anything—what would he have that Mahoney wants?"

Dr. Blaine coughed into his fist, looking away from Sam in a way that concerned the young hunter.

"Dean has _nothing_, do you hear me?" Sam said, voice rising in anger and growing fear. "What did Mahoney take from him?"

It couldn't be their father's journal, it couldn't be the Impala, it couldn't be the cache of weapons stowed in the trunk. None of those things seemed right, but beyond them, all Dean had was his music, his clothes, his watch, and—

"His necklace, I believe. A charm of some sort, that he has provided to Mr. Mahoney."

Sam's eyes widened. Dean's amulet!

"You're lying," he accused, but Mahoney's pawing at his throat and collar earlier suddenly made sense. "Dean wouldn't just hand over his necklace. Why does Mahoney even want it? It's not worth anything."

The dim light in the room made it difficult to tell, but Sam thought that Dr. Blaine looked embarrassed, or chastened.

"Mr. Mahoney believes it has curative properties. Palliative, at the very least."

"I'm _dying_, boy, and Dr. Blaine is talking out of turn."

The doctor stood quickly as Mahoney entered, Carson and two other members of the security team on his heels. The old man had changed, somehow—was more stooped, now, his movements more sluggish. His skin had acquired a grayish cast.

"Mr. Mahoney, I'm sorry, but Dean's necklace isn't going to help you," Sam said earnestly. "You've made some sort of mistake."

"No, no, the only mistake I made was in allowing Dr. Blaine to stop my medication before I could discover the proper ritual."

Sam saw Carson and Blaine exchange glances as the old man sank into a wingback chair near Sam's feet.

"Ritual?" Sam repeated.

"Yes, the one that will release the talisman's power, and restore me. I thought I had found the appropriate passages, and that everything was ready. Except for the last piece, the necklace which your brother had. You and he—you were difficult to track down. Even with my connections, it was virtually impossible. You keep no schedule; move around with little rhyme or reason. That's why I enticed you to come here."

"You _enticed_ us?" Sam felt suddenly like a parrot. "Sir, we came here because we'd heard there was a—"

Mahoney cut him off. "A crusker. Yes, I know. It was lured first, from Canada, with a long and disgusting trail of all the things that cruskers like to eat best, at a time when you and your brother were still in the Midwest. Then I made sure that the proper media, the appropriate parties, learned of its arrival."

Sam thought back quickly, certain that it had been Ellen who'd put the Winchesters on the crusker's trail. Once she'd brought it up, a little research into New Hampshire lore and local news had uncovered the details of the crusker's nightly raids on farm animals and pets in the area. Sam remembered telling Dean how unusual it was to find the creature so far south.

He nodded weakly, the picture coming together for him. "So you used the crusker as bait to bring us here, and then get the amulet from Dean so you could use it to—what, cure your cancer or whatever it is you have?"

"More than cure," Mahoney said, wheezing around phlegm in his chest. "Rejuvenate. Reanimate. Restore. That talisman will bring me back to life, boy, give me _back_ my _life_, and make it impossible for what's happening to me now ever to happen again."

"You think it's like the Fountain of Youth," Sam said.

"Exactly. It will keep me alive—forever."

Mahoney rested his head against the back of his seat, closing his eyes for a moment before leaning forward suddenly, pounding his fist against the chair arm in furious exasperation.

"Except that I can't get it to work! You! You and your brother must know the secret! There's no other reason to explain why he's worn it so long, keeps it so close! No other reason why he's still among the living, after everything that's happened to him! Do you think I don't know about the electrocution? The car accident? This talisman—"

Sam saw for the first time that Mahoney clutched it in his fist, as the old man shook the horned charm in the air.

"This talisman has kept him alive, and now it's got to do the same for me!"

A spate of coughing wracked him, leaving him weak and gasping. Dr. Blaine knelt beside him quickly, reaching into his medical bag, but Mahoney waved him off.

"No! No medication! My body must be free of drugs for the ritual to work!"

Sam watched in sickened fascination as the old man fought for several minutes to regain his breath and his composure. When Mahoney spoke again, there was barely tempered fury in his voice.

"You know how it works," he accused, pinioning Sam with a fierce glare.

"No, sir. You're mistaken," Sam replied, struggling to remain polite, if only out of respect for the man's age, his infirmity. His madness. "It's just a piece of jewelry."

"Don't lie to me, boy. I've done the research. Or had it done. I don't know how it came into your brother's possession, but this is the piece I've been looking for. The piece I need--_wasted_ on your worthless brother!"

Sam felt the muscle in his jaw tighten at the insult. "Fine. You've got it now, so let me go, and we'll get out of your life—your _new_ life—and on our way."

"I told you—I don't know how it works! I won't let you go, not until you tell me the secret!"

"There is no secret," Sam said firmly, thinking he might as well have been talking to a wall. A nut-job wall. "Dean's necklace—he keeps it for sentimental reasons, that's all."

Mahoney glowered at him through clouded eyes. "Then your brother has been keeping things from you," the old man snapped. "Just like he's done before."

"What's that supposed to mean?" It was Sam's turn to snarl now. The pain in his leg was flaring sharply, and although part of him seemed very detached—due to the morphine, he suspected—he was getting pretty damn tired of whatever game Mahoney was playing.

"I don't have to tell you that your family has kept things from you." There was a look of malicious cunning on Mahoney's face. "Your father, for instance—there was plenty he didn't share with you, isn't that right? Things you're still finding out? I'll bet you're afraid that you haven't even scratched the surface yet."

Sam's nostrils flared as he shot Mahoney a glare. "You know even less about my father than you do about my brother," he said tightly.

"I know he didn't tell you about his relationship with the Harvelles," Mahoney replied, voice soft and insidious. "I know he didn't fill you in on his plan to confront the yellow-eyed demon—" Sam's breath caught "—until you forced him to do so. Isn't that right? Are you surprised I know so much about you, boy? Well, don't be. I'm a very smart, very wealthy man, and what I don't already know or have, I can easily buy from the people who do."

Sam also pitched his voice low, catching and keeping Mahoney's gaze. "Yeah, except for my brother's necklace. For that, you had to resort to kidnapping and sadism, which makes you nothing more than stupid, low-life scum. You are a sick, _sick_ man."

Mahoney didn't take the insult well, rising from his chair with a shriek and flinging himself bodily at Sam. There was a great deal of shouting as the doctor went for the old man, and Carson for Sam. Two more members of the security team ran in to help restore order to what threatened to become a full-fledged brawl, for all that Mahoney and Sam were both invalids.

"I need the talisman's secret, and I need it now!" Mahoney screeched in fury, reaching out from the doctor's firm grip to claw at Sam's arm. "Your brother might lie to you, but he would never leave you! Where is he? Why won't he answer his phone?"

Still on the chaise longue, Sam was breathing heavily, biting his lip against the pain searing through his broken leg. His vague smile was his only reply, and when Carson backhanded him, Sam allowed himself to cry out—the force of the blow would have knocked him off the chair had the two guards not been holding him down.

"Answer the man, you sonofabitch!" the security chief snapped.

"Got nothin' to say," Sam mumbled, lower lip split, mouth already swelling.

Carson raised his hand to strike again, but Sam rushed to clarify, voice still defiant even if his body was too broken to be.

"Dean! Has got nothin' to say. Not to Mahoney, not to anybody. You had your shot with him, but you missed, and that was the only one you'll get. If there's a secret about his necklace, I hope my brother takes it with him to his grave, Mahoney, long after you're in yours!"

Mahoney struggled to regain a modicum of control, lungs rattling, the doctor's supporting hands all that held him upright. "I appreciate your bravado, boy," he whispered finally, with that peculiar, humorless chuckle Sam had come to hate. "But I fear that, unless I speak to your brother very soon, the first of us to go may very well be _you_."

-:- -:- -:-

_TBC. Comments welcomed._


	6. Chapter 6

_**Disclaimer**__: Original content and characters are mine, but the Winchesters are not. I write for my own entertainment, not for profit._

_Thanks so much for continuing to read! I had hoped to post the final chapter on Sunday, but I think it will be Monday, instead. Sorry--flight schedules and library hours and business sometimes get in the way of what we'd rather be doing, you know. Please look for me!_

-:- -:- -:-

Rain from a new storm pounded on the barracks roof, sluicing off the eaves in rivers, feeding the growing lake that was the employee parking area. Once night fell, Haskell pulled everyone in, even knowing it would piss off Carson no end.

That Dean kid was _good_--taking out Franklin, bushwhacking Gonzalez--but no way he was going to come back to the estate. Not now, whether or not his poor brother was still up at the main house. Had his car again, and was probably already half the country away—at least he would be if he had any sense. No need for the men to get cold and wet out in this shit when it wasn't necessary.

They were tired and demoralized, not a one of them happy about what they'd done in the last two days. They were proud men of honor, this team—except for Carson, anyway. Asshole didn't know the first thing about providing security, and Mahoney was too conceited to know Carson was fucking him six ways from Sunday, taking kickbacks and bribes or flat-out telling the old geezer that surveillance systems were in place where there were none and pocketing the dough. It meant bonuses for the men sometimes, sure, but none of them felt good about the extra take-home. They weren't the hush-money types.

But this was the kicker. Kidnapping that tall kid, holding him hostage, practically, and then not giving him medical treatment? Hell, that was just fucking bullshit, and they all knew it, even though nobody had said it. Didn't the Geneva Fucking Convention mean _any_thing anymore? 'Cause make no mistake about it, that kid was a fucking prisoner of war, even if Mahoney was the only one who knew just what war it was they were fighting.

Mahoney had been batshit all day, screaming at them like a banshee, furious that he wasn't getting his own way for once. He'd been trying to get through to the older kid on the phone, but the kid never answered, and Mahoney was frustrated as hell about it. It was kind of funny, really--like the kid was playing Mahoney's own game, making the old sonofabitch wait until he was primed to do business and the kid had the upper hand. No doubt about it, Mahoney was ready.

At least a half dozen times, Mahoney had looked in on the tall one, trying to figure out his next step to get the brother back, just staring at him with hate in his eyes while the kid zoned in and out of consciousness. Other than that fucking talisman Mahoney had been raving over, Haskell wasn't sure what the whole deal was about, but he felt certain that that Dean guy was long gone.

Too bad for his brother, really. The hurt one. Haskell would bet good money they'd just about seen the last of _that _boy, too, except for maybe some digging...

The rain battered at the roof. Franklin was reading a NASCAR magazine, Steinman and Butler played head-to-head poker, and Gonzalez was watching soccer on ESPN. Carson was up babysitting the old man, and Haskell didn't expect him back until morning. The call was Haskell's to make about posting guards, and he simply didn't see the need.

He had just flopped down on the couch to watch the soccer match when the power went out. Everyone groaned and Franklin cursed as they waited for the generator to kick in. When it did, and the lights came back on, big-screen TV blaring once again, it took them all a moment to realize what had happened.

Haskell was back on his feet, left arm jacked hard behind his back, a Glock pressed to his right temple as Dean Winchester held him tight, a feral grin on his rain-soaked face. The kid looked like hell, clothes wet through, dark shadows under his eyes, but damned if he didn't have their complete and total attention.

"Evening, gents," he said. "So nice to see you again, although I gotta say I'm embarrassed for you. You all get your training at the same nursery school? Haskell, tell that jerk-off Butler to get his hand away from his gun, or your brains are gonna get splattered all over his pretty little shirt."

Haskell's throat worked hard. "Butler! Do like he says!" he ordered, voice taut, and the man eased back down into his chair.

"That's better," Dean said. "Now, I don't want you boys to be alarmed by the fact that I could put a bullet through Haskell's head, here, just about as easy as I could put one through—say—yours, Gonzalez."

Suddenly the Glock was aimed at the top of Gonzalez's nose, between his eyes, and the man blanched while Haskell gasped in pain, Dean pulling up harder on his left arm.

Gonzalez raised his hands out to his sides, shaking his head slowly. "I got a wife and three kids, man," he said hoarsely. "I helped you yesterday, you and your brother."

Dean eyed him over the barrel of the Glock, then huffed a laugh. "That so? You knew damn well what was going on with that ambulance, you sonofabitch. Knew what was going to happen. So tell me why I shouldn't waste every one of you motherfuckers right this minute."

"You couldn't get us all," Butler said, eyes narrowing, and Dean turned the gun on him, next.

"Maybe not, but I could sure as hell start with you."

"Butler!" Haskell snapped. "Just back off! That's an order!"

A tense moment passed, rain drumming heavily on the roof, before Butler did as he was told. Dean kept the gun leveled at him.

"Actually, gentlemen, I'm here to make a little offer to anyone who'll accept it," he said quietly. "Federal agents are going to be all over this place in about ten minutes, and you're all going down as accessories to kidnapping my little brother. You know what kind of time you'll get, in a federal prison?"

Dean glanced briefly at Gonzalez. "Dude, your kids'll have kids before you get out. You lookin' forward to tellin' 'em stories about how Abuelito played 'hide the soap' for twenty years?"

Gonzalez shifted uncomfortably on the sofa as Dean shot a look at the lanky guy, Franklin. "What about you? You want to spend the next couple of decades behind bars, just for doin' what that idiot Carson ordered you to do?"

Franklin couldn't meet his eyes, and Haskell's throat worked again.

"You said you had an offer."

Dean laughed. "Yeah, I got one. We're down to about nine minutes here, fellas, before the FBI sashays in. I figure you get in your little Tonka trucks and spin quietly on out of here, head south once you get to the main road, and you just might be able to avoid 'em. Pack up your wives and babies and get the hell out of Dodge by mornin', and ain't nobody but us gonna be the wiser."

"You're bluffing!" Butler started to rise from his chair, but Steinman put out a hand to stop him.

"Wait! Are you willing to take the chance? I'm not—I didn't sign on here to go to prison for kidnapping some kid, at Mahoney's say-so. Guy's insane, and Carson's not much better."

Franklin agreed, making sure Dean was watching as he carefully dropped his magazine onto the end-table beside him. "Whether or not the feds are on their way, I don't mind going. This whole gig has left a bad taste in my mouth--I don't know what the hell Mahoney's doing, but I've had enough of it. I got my paycheck yesterday, same as all of you, and I'm ready to roll. Yeah, asshole, I'll take you up on the deal."

He raised his hands in the air and shifted his weight forward in his seat, brown eyes locked on Dean's green ones. Dean stepped back, pulling Haskell with him, making sure he still had a clear shot at everyone in the room.

"Me, too," Gonzalez said from the couch. "My family—man, my wife would kill me if she knew what we've done here. I'm going, too."

"Wait your turn," Dean replied sharply. "You. Where are your keys?"

Franklin indicated his left pants-pocket, and then retrieved the keys cautiously, drawing them out slowly between thumb and fore-finger. He cast a look around the room, all eyes on him.

"Don't bother to write," he said. "You won't find me."

He nodded at Dean, then slipped out into the downpour. In a moment, they could see the overhead light go on briefly in his truck as he got in and started it up, leaving the headlights off as he steered carefully down the drive, rain completely masking the sound of his engine.

Gonzalez followed in short order, with Steinman on his heels.

"You gonna give me trouble, Butler?" Dean asked grimly.

"Don't think I couldn't," the man growled in response.

By this time, Haskell thought his arm was ready to snap, but he sighed tiredly.

"Kid's right, Butler. We'll do hard time for our part in this. It ain't worth it, man. You got no loyalty to Mahoney, and none to Carson, either. Sonsofbitches, both of them, and Mahoney's on his way out, anyhow. You think they'd protect you on this? No way. You better haul ass while you got the chance."

"Never abandoned a mission before, Haskell, and I'm not looking to start now."

Something clicked suddenly for Dean, and he took a closer look at Butler. Gray hair cropped close to his skull and in good shape for a guy in his mid-fifties. Definitely had the attitude. Probably the Devil Dog tat was on his bicep or forearm, under the long sleeve of his button-down, where it couldn't be seen.

"Marines don't leave their own behind," Dean said. "I get that. Me and Sam—our dad was in the Corps. Well, I'm not leaving _my_ own, either. I'm getting my brother out of here, whatever it takes."

Butler's mouth tightened briefly as he assessed the young hunter standing before him. There was a long, tense pause, and Haskell counted the seconds while neither of the other two men backed down. Fifteen. Twenty. Finally, Butler's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Your dad see any action?"

Dean nodded. "Pulled one of the last tours in 'Nam. Maybe Laos or Cambodia. Wouldn't tell us where, and we got the lesson pretty quick not to ask. He's passed, now."

Butler still didn't move, eyes searching Dean's face, and Dean met his gaze squarely until Butler made his decision, shooting a glance at Haskell.

"Treating his boy the way we have is not how to honor a man who's served his country," the ex-Marine said. "I'm going."

He was out the door within moments, vanishing into the rainy night.

Dean eased the pressure off Haskell's arm, then gave him a little push and stepped back, putting some distance between them in case Haskell wanted to play. But the man just rubbed his arm, taking a look around the now-empty barracks before he reached for the door.

"Kid, I—" Haskell paused, as though searching for words. Then he shrugged, wincing a little. "Carson's mean, and he fights dirty. You better watch your back."

"I'll remember that," Dean replied. "I'd say you've got just about a minute left."

"Yeah." Haskell sighed again, and then he, too, was gone.

-:- -:- -:-

Dean allowed his hands to tremble as the adrenaline worked itself out of his system. He'd gambled heavily that some of Mahoney's security team would buy his claim that the feds were coming; gambled even more heavily that one of them might choose to leave rather than take him on. He'd been ready to use the Glock without regret if he had no other options. That all five would volunteer to go--fuck, either his luck was changing for the better, or things were worse than he imagined.

_God, Sammy, please be all right!_

He tucked the gun in against the small of his back and splashed quickly through growing puddles, keeping his body low to the ground as he ran, the rain drenching him. There was a car parked beside the kitchen door, an older-model Hyundai, and he realized Mrs. Vu must still be inside.

He moved quietly up the back steps, peering through the rain-flecked glass to see the Vietnamese cook just finish wiping down the butcher block. Dean twisted the doorknob. Locked.

Mrs. Vu looked up at the sound, gasping as she saw his pale face in the window, dropping the dishrag to the floor in her fright.

"Sh, sh, sh, sh," he encouraged her, knowing she couldn't hear him. Dean put a finger to his lips, then beckoned her closer, indicating the doorknob. "Let me in, please. Please?"

She skewered him with a glare, then made a big show of ignoring him to retrieve the dishrag, taking it to the sink to rinse it carefully. Only when she had hung it over the faucet and dried her hands on a nearby tea-towel did she deign to look at him again, canted eyes narrowed, lips pursed in disapproval.

Dean cocked his head at her and smiled what he hoped was winningly, pouring on as much charm as he could with the rain plastering his hair against his head before streaming down his face in rivulets. He clasped his hands together in prayerful entreaty.

"Please."

She made a move as if to spit, but caught herself before she could sully the spotless kitchen floor. Instead, she took the towel and placed it flat on the polished marble tiles beside her feet, then nodded curtly and moved the two steps to the door. She unlocked and opened it quickly, and Dean allowed her to pull him inside and position him on the towel before he reached over her head to shut the door quietly behind them.

Under her fierce gaze, he wiped his filthy boots on the tea-towel, shrugging helplessly at the muddy ruin it became.

"I'm sorry!" he whispered, afraid she was about to chew him out for making a mess. "Mrs. Vu, I'm sorry, but you have to go. Go now! Do you understand me? It's not safe for you here any more, and you need to leave."

Dean made shooing motions with his hands as the little cook watched him intently. After a moment, she stepped past him to one of the many kitchen cabinets, opening it and withdrawing a large, stainless steel sauce pan and a well-seasoned cast-iron griddle.

"Mrs. Vu, what are you doing? Nononono, no cooking! You've got to go. And you can't come back."

She stalked past him again, this time opening a drawer and withdrawing a carving fork and an eight-inch fillet knife.

"Whoa, there." Dean tried again, eyeing her cautiously, desperation amping his voice. "Mrs. Vu, you can't stay here—it's not safe. You understand me? Please, I don't want you to get hurt."

Putting the cutlery into the sauce pan, she opened yet another drawer and pulled out the ladle with which she had threatened Dean the first time he had come into her kitchen. Dean's eyes widened as she shook it at him, a scolding replay of their first meeting.

_Old gal's gonna try to smack me with it again!_ he thought incredulously.

Instead, she placed it in the sauce pan with her other trophies, then set everything on the counter, freeing her hands to put on her coat and rain-hat.

"Nah!" she cautioned sharply when Dean moved to help her. She jabbed a finger at the towel on the floor, and Dean stayed planted where he was.

When Mrs. Vu was all buttoned up and ready to go, pan, griddle and cutlery safe in her grasp, she glared up at Dean again. Then, suddenly, she smiled, wide enough to show teeth crooked and stained against the wizened skin of her face.

"You help tall boy," she said, to Dean's amazement. "Mahoney?" This time she did spit, right on the polished floor, and Dean nearly laughed aloud at the impish look she gave him. "I go Portsmouth, open restaurant. Vu Restaurant. You come, eat plenty onion."

With that, she turned and walked out the door, leaving Dean behind her, stunned speechless.

-:- -:- -:-

The split-second between oblivion and consciousness was the same split-second between numbness and searing pain. Sam jerked awake with a start, instantly aware of the red-hot agony in his leg. He clamped his teeth tightly, strangling on a groan, waiting for the first shock of feeling to fade.

It took him a while to sort out where he was, before he remembered his conversation with Mahoney in this same room. He was alone now, which seemed odd, although his hands were still bound in front of him and it seemed obvious he couldn't go anywhere with his leg the way it was. Still on the chaise longue, still in a splint, still completely screwed to hell, with no idea how to get out of whatever effed-up kind of game this was.

Sam remembered thinking it had been daytime, when he and Mahoney had nearly come to blows. The house was silent now, and the only light in the room was from a lamp somewhere behind his head. Night, then, and they'd left him unguarded. If he was going to get away, this might be his best, his only chance.

But he didn't think he could do it. Not on his own.

Sam didn't know how long the morphine had stolen the pain away, but he did know that he'd give anything for another shot of it, to escape the fucking nuclear agony that consumed him now. It was nearly impossible just to think, much less to think of moving. Even less to actually move.

Isaac Newton flittered through his brain, and Sam snorted a laugh, despite his pain. _First Friggin' Law of Motion_. So applicable here, since Sam certainly didn't think he was capable of getting up, not with his leg as bad as it was. No, his body was at rest, and he had every intention of it remaining that way, unless Mahoney came back. Mahoney, the completely unbalanced force in their little equation of inertia. And Dean? Sam offered a silent prayer through gritted teeth: _God, please let Dean be the object in motion, coming my way! _

So, he was wrong about the thinking, anyway; he could lie there and think. Think about how much his leg was killing—_no, think about something distracting. Try to think of a way out of whatever the hell mess this is!_

Because, truth be told? Although he was pretty sure Dean was coming for him, he wasn't _really_ pretty sure. There was a chance that Dean was off the board, out of play, or Carson wouldn't have been so sloppy about leaving Sam alone, even with a broken leg. That, or they just didn't know Dean as well as Mahoney seemed to think they did.

For one thing, Mahoney was completely wrong about Dean's amulet. Sam could still remember how it had come into Dean's possession—God, how many years ago was that? A while, anyway.

Sam licked parched lips, feeling oddly dizzy although he hadn't moved a muscle for some time. The room did a slow, graceful spin around him, nausea momentarily threatening to override his need to remain perfectly still. Huh. Maybe the morphine was still working, after all.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on making his stomach settle. Once that was accomplished, he resumed thinking.

It _was_ kind of uncanny how much Mahoney knew about their family. About the secrets they'd kept from one another. Dad—God knew what secrets Dad had taken with him when he'd died and gone to hell. They'd had to find out about Daniel Elkins on their own; about the hunting community on their own; the roadhouse on their own. Not to mention he'd kept The Big Secret. Yeah, right up to his deal with the yellow-eyed demon, Dad had pretty much been the champion secret-keeper of the universe.

And then he'd had a little help, because Dean—well, Dean had his own cache of truths stashed away. His ambitions. His relationship with Cassie. Sam had never worked out whether those were actually secrets, or things the brothers had just never bothered to share, maybe because Dean had _issues_—Sam snorted, and even with his eyes closed and the scorching heat in his leg dialing down from reactor to blast furnace level, the room did another spin—or maybe because Sam just hadn't shown any interest. Hadn't _had_ any interest, really, and how jacked-up selfish was that, when even now Dean was on his way, the object in motion, coming to get his little brother out of this fucking mess.

Sam was pretty sure he was. Hoped and prayed he was.

Pain flared suddenly, and he was crying before he knew it, hot tears tracing down his cheeks like lava from the volcano of his leg. Liquid fire, finding its way to a weak spot, a crack in the hard surface, and spilling out freely, destroying everything in its path.

Still he did not move, but forced himself to stick to the topic.

_The topic! What was the topic? Somebody please tell him what the hell was the—oh, right. Secrets_.

Well, he couldn't completely fault Dad and Dean for keeping things from him, because he'd had a few secrets of his own. School. Visions. There were two right there, kinda big ones, although they were in completely different categories. Like Jeopardy! Sam laughed aloud, or thought he did. He was ready to play for the big money, Alex, taking _Visions_ for a thousand and happy to state his answer in the form of a question.

_Dean, where are you? You wouldn't leave me here alone, would you?_

Uh-oh. That was two questions, and now Sam was probably disqualified, just a loser with a broken leg and a body at rest, intending to remain at rest.

His consciousness slipped away.

-:- -:- -:-

With Mrs. Vu gone, the main floor was quiet. No one talking, no one walking, no sound at all. Dean figured that Mahoney, Carson and the doctor were together somewhere, possibly with Sam. And Sam was probably back in the basement.

Thanks to the tea-towel Mrs. Vu had made him use to wipe his feet, Dean's boots left no muddy tracks as he stepped quietly down the main hallway.

His first stop was in the room where he'd finally met Mahoney face to face. _Ah, there they were!_ He stuffed the car-keys back in his pocket, then headed for the cellar door.

He listened carefully there, too, but still heard nothing. With one last look around him at the first floor, Dean slipped down into the basement under the light of the naked bulbs that lined the ceiling, heading quickly for the little room at the back.

Except for his jacket and ruined shirt, the room was empty.

Dean scooped the jacket off the floor and pulled it on, ignoring the shirt. _Never liked it much, anyway_, he thought. _Dammit, Sammy! Where the fuck are you? Mahoney, you better hope to hell that he's still—_

Face reflecting his fury, Dean strode back down the aisle between the basement shelving, ready to leap up the stairs when the doorway at the top darkened suddenly.

Carson sneered down at him, blocking the way.

"Well, Winchester," he said, his grin vulpine. "Did you think you'd just sneak on back in here and I wouldn't know?"

"Figured you seemed stupid enough," Dean replied nonchalantly.

"I'm up here and you're trapped in a basement, smart guy."

Dean smiled affably. "Terrific grasp of the obvious. See, there's a sign of your true genius, right there."

"You're just mad that your pussy of a brother got hurt." Carson descended two steps, reeking arrogance, entirely missing the subtle change in Dean's eyes.

"Yeah, he got hurt, all right. No denying that," the young hunter responded, still smiling. Something tiny and vicious in his chest released its hold on Dean's heart. _'Hurt' was one thing, but 'killed' was another altogether. There was still a chance for him and Sam to come out of this all right._

Carson flexed, preening. "Hell, that kid got fucked up but good, asshole, and now it's your turn."

"Well, come on down here, then, Chuckles." Dean spread his arms invitingly, stepping back to give the man space. "Let's dance."

Smile widening, Carson came down the steps quickly, and Dean moved farther back, his weight on the balls of his feet, knees bent slightly, hands curling into loose fists.

There wasn't much room in the basement for sparring, but the two men circled one another warily, one or the other feinting now and then until Carson made the first real move, lashing out with a right jab.

Ducking back, Dean avoided it easily, also anticipating Carson's follow-up. He smacked the burly man's hand away and slipped inside his guard, catching Carson on the cheekbone with his own quick right.

Carson grunted, raising a hand to his cheek, feeling for blood. Finding none, he grinned.

"Just a little love-tap, huh, kid?"

Dean didn't bother to answer, saving his breath, staying focused. He had Carson pegged as a brawler, and Dean wasn't above a little free-for-all, himself. Especially not after everything that had happened here.

He stepped in, kicked Carson in the ankle, then launched an uppercut that caught the man on the point of his chin, rocking his head back and sending him reeling into a shelf full of molding books. They went down in a clatter of noise and dust, Carson landing atop them but clambering quickly to his feet. For a big guy, he moved pretty damned fast, Dean thought.

The fight began in earnest, then, and there was nothing of skill or finesse about it. Some part of Dean realized viscerally that Carson led with his left, dropping his shoulder a full inch before throwing each punch. Unaware of the knowledge on a conscious level, the young hunter was also unaware that he used it without mercy.

The tight quarters in the cellar hampered them, allowing each of them to land blows the other might have avoided under different circumstances. Mostly they moved up and down the narrow aisle-way, scuffling, grappling, switching places during the close-in fighting.

Dean tried to stay out of Carson's arms each time the man attempted to trap him in a bear-hug, choosing instead to keep his distance, darting in to land stinging lefts, wicked rights to the big man's cheekbone or jaw; wading in to pummel him in the gut with both hands when the occasion allowed. The man was bleeding in half a dozen places.

For Carson's part, he had the heavier hands, leaving marks on Dean's face, drawing blood along the brow-bone with a blow to Dean's right eye. When Dean blinked his vision clear, he saw Carson holding the crowbar in both hands, the hook-end over his shoulder, like a baseball bat, ready to swing.

The big man was winded, gasping, and Dean held his ground as Carson's grip tightened on the crowbar.

"You're good, for a pretty boy," Carson panted.

"Aw, I'll bet you say that to all the fellas," Dean drawled in response, controlling his own breathing as best he could. "Where's my brother?"

"The hell you wanna know that for? Ain't gonna do you any good—you're both dead men. You will be, and your brother already is."

The clawed thing in Dean's chest clamped down tight again on his heart, and at that, they charged like bulls, Carson with the crowbar raised high, Dean with a roaring fury that boiled out of him unchecked. In the cramped confines of the basement aisle, he blocked Carson's descending hands with an upraised arm, the hook of the crowbar somehow catching a heavy box on an overhead shelf and sending it toppling down onto them. The crowbar slipped from Carson's grasp, clattering at their feet, banging against their legs as it bounced loudly on the concrete floor. Dean took full advantage, stepping in to deliver a vicious haymaker that smashed Carson's lips against his teeth. Carson stumbled over the crowbar as he fell back, spitting blood, mouth already swollen, a trail of red dribbling down his chin. In the harsh light, Dean thought he saw fear flash in the man's eyes.

Then, suddenly, Carson whipped an arm out to the side, to one of the shelves, launching a half-dozen books at Dean's head. Dean ducked instinctively, and Carson whirled, plowing through the debris they had strewn along the way as they fought, plunging toward and up the staircase.

In a second, Dean was after him, grabbing hold of the stair-rail and catapulting himself up the steps, catching Carson by the ankle near the top and sending him sprawling into the first-floor hallway.

Dean fought in a rage, now, like a berserker, fists flying thoughtlessly, landing hard against Carson's face and neck and chest and torso. Somehow the two men regained their feet, Carson lumbering bear-like, moving in an effort to escape the blows, trying to envelop Dean in a smothering grasp.

Dean grabbed handfuls of Carson's shirt and shoulders, dropping to the floor on his back while planting a boot against the man's stomach, rocking and lifting hard, hoisting Carson up and over his head. Carson flew over him, and Dean twisted around quickly, rising to a crouch, ready for whatever the man brought next.

But Carson's forward momentum propelled him through the cellar doorway. He ricocheted off the jamb and crashed down the staircase with a hoarse shout that was suddenly silenced.

Dean shoved himself off the floor and stood swaying at the top of the stairs, breath coming in gasps. Carson lay sprawled across the bottom steps, neck bent at an unnatural angle, limbs flung awkwardly around him, eyes wide and vacant, staring directly at Dean.

Dean sagged against the door, swallowing hard around the bile in his throat. _One down, one to go_.

-:- -:- -:-

_TBC. Comments welcomed._


	7. Chapter 7

_**Disclaimer**__: Original content and characters are mine, but the Winchesters are not. I write for my own entertainment, not for profit._

_We've made it to the end, almost--here's the final chapter. I'm so glad you're here! _

-:- -:- -:-

"My God!"

Dean flinched at the unexpected voice, fists ready for a new attack, but Dr. Blaine would be no threat, he knew.

The doctor rushed past him, clattering down the stairs and kneeling beside Carson's broken body. He had his bag with him for some reason, but it was amply obvious that his medical services weren't needed. He turned back to Dean, gaping up at him.

"Where are they keeping my brother?" Dean growled, taking a swipe at the blood oozing from his split lip, using his sleeve to mop the blood at his brow.

With a last look at Carson, the doctor stood and wiped his hands on his trousers. His eyes widened even more as he realized that the young man stood between him and the only way out of the basement. Stood bloodied, outraged, dangerous. Murderous.

"I've tried to help him!" Blaine all but shouted, babbling suddenly. "Mr. Mahoney forbade pain-killers, but I gave him some, anyway! And Carson--Carson didn't want me to reduce the fracture, but I couldn't let your brother suffer that way. I helped him—I did! The leg is set! Not properly, of course, because I couldn't use any of Mr. Mahoney's medical equipment, but—"

"Where is my brother?" Dean asked again, and the doctor blanched at the deadliness of his voice, his expression. His eyes.

"Please, let me go," Blaine squeaked.

Dean started down the steps in a rage. "Tell me where my brother is!" he roared. "I swear to God, I'll kill you all unless I find him!"

The doctor shrieked and leaped over Carson's body, putting it between him and the madman descending the staircase. "He's on the main floor, in the parlor! I tried to make him comfortable!"

Dean reached out and grabbed Blaine by the shirt collar, hauling him back across the body until their noses were millimeters apart. "He'd better be okay, doctor, or you are one very dead man, you understand me?"

Blaine's head bobbled. "Yes, yes—let me show you! You'll see, he's going to be fine. Please, just don't hurt me!"

Without another word, Dean turned and started back up the staircase, one hand still clenched in Blaine's collar, towing him along behind like a cow to the slaughter. When they reached the first floor, Dean shoved the doctor in front of him.

"There anybody else in the house besides Mahoney?" he asked.

"N-no, not if the cook is gone. And Mr. Mahoney is currently, um, indisposed. He's not likely to come back to the main floor this evening," the man said, frantic and frightened and conciliatory. "Your brother is right this way. Mr. Mahoney wouldn't let me give him any pain-killers, but I insisted on setting the leg and pushing the antibiotics. Infection would be very serious. Here, this is it—he's right in here!"

He opened a door and entered the dimly-lit room, flipping on a light-switch as he went, and Dean pushed in behind him anxiously, swearing vehemently with both fear and relief at his first sight of Sam.

His brother was unconscious, sprawled on some sort of slanted couch far too short for his lanky body. His broken leg stretched out in front of him, still splinted, foot resting on an ottoman shoved up against the end of the couch to give it added length. Sam's face was sweat-slicked, contorted in the light from the chandelier overhead, and he tossed his head with a feeble moan.

"Sam!"

Dean started toward his brother, then had the presence of mind to latch onto the doctor again, forcing him into a wingback chair nearby. Blaine sat willingly.

"Sammy?" Dean crouched beside him, placing a shaking hand on his brother's forehead, relieved to find only a little heat there. "Sam, you hear me? Sam."

It had been a huge and horrific risk, not answering Mahoney's calls. Oh, Dean had picked up the first one, just long enough to say "_I know the answer_" before ending the call abruptly, sending everything that followed directly to voice-mail. Using the bastard's own tactics, making Mahoney stew, keeping him waiting and wondering. So long as Mahoney believed the amulet could work some mojo for him, Dean had to believe that Sam would be spared.

He had listened to the messages, of course, jaw clenched as Mahoney threatened, cursed, cajoled, pleaded and threatened some more. Dean had forced himself to ignore it all.

The ninth message had been most horrifying, almost more than he could take, as Sam's endless scream ripped the breath from him, left Dean on his knees and shaking in abject terror long after the voice-mail had ended. He'd come close to losing it, then, knowing Sam was paying the price for his brother's absence, and Dean vowed to rend Mahoney limb from limb before he was through.

He had staked everything--_every_thing--on Mahoney keeping Sammy alive, using him as a pawn to draw Dean back into the game. However the hell the old man had found out about the amulet, he'd used a lot of brains to do it, to get it, and Dean had counted on those brains. Mahoney would keep all his pieces on the board until he was certain they were no longer of use, and that included both Winchesters.

But, God, Dean had been scared, trying to take care of business single-mindedly (_"Keep your eyes on the target, Dean," their father's voice had reminded him, time and again_), knowing he could never live with himself if he'd gambled wrong, if Mahoney had been too angry or insane or vindictive, and Sam--

"Sammy?"

His brother's eyes flickered, and then Sam was awake, his gasp of pain making Dean regret instantly that he had roused him.

"What the hell, doc?" Dean shouted as Sam grabbed at his broken leg, keening in agony. The doctor was at their side instantly, fumbling in his bag and withdrawing a vial of clear liquid and a hypodermic syringe. He loaded the syringe with a small amount of the fluid, tapping it with his middle finger to release any air.

"It's morphine sulfate," he said simply. "I told you the bones aren't set properly."

"Dean!" Sam's jaw was clenched tight as he let go of his leg and clutched his brother's shoulder. "Dean, I thought—are you all right? God, it hurts! Dean. Dean! You okay? I thought you were--oh, God!"

"Easy, Sammy, I gotcha. I'm right here," Dean soothed, shooting a desperate look at Blaine as the doctor approached with the syringe. "I gotcha now—pain's gonna be all gone, soon. Easy, Sam, shhh. Come on, doc, get it done! 'Sall right, Sammy—gonna be all right. Shh, shh, shh."

Dean trapped Sam's frantic hands in his own while the doctor lifted the bottom of Sam's shirt, exposing his flat abdomen. It was all muscle, but the doctor was able to pinch enough skin to make the subcutaneous injection quickly. The opiate's effect was virtually instant, and Sam fell back against the couch, breathing heavily, jaw slack, eyes rolling behind lids purple with hurt and exhaustion.

Dean found himself struggling to get sufficient air into his own lungs. "How long's that good for?" he asked, releasing Sam's hands and laying them down gently atop his brother's chest.

Blaine shrugged, more confident now in his own element. "A while. His pain is pretty intense. You need to get him out of here, and to a decent hospital where his leg can be set properly, and they can deal with the threat of infection. He may also need a skin graft where the bones came through his calf."

"Where do we go?" Dean glared balefully at the doctor, who paused before answering.

"Boston might be far enough," he offered finally. "Mr. Mahoney's influence is widespread, but I think Boston is far enough. Or Albany."

Dean nodded. "Here's the deal, then. You set Sam up, help me get him situated in the back of my car and sedated enough to get us the hell out of here and to Boston or Albany. You do that, and I don't hunt you down and kill you."

The doctor blanched again, his mouth making a little 'o' in his face. "That, uh, that's very generous," he stammered. "I can do that."

Dean scrubbed a hand quickly through his hair. _Fuck, he didn't want to trust_ _this man!_ But he was running out of choices.

"I'm going to go get the car," he said. "You do one thing to hurt my brother--_one_ thing!--or allow anyone else to hurt him, and I will break _every_ bone in your body before I put a bullet through your head. Do you understand me?"

He hadn't thought it possible, but the doctor turned even paler. "Completely," he whispered, and Dean believed that he believed.

-:- -:- -:-

It took Dean exactly seven minutes to retrieve the Impala from where he'd hidden it off the main road outside the estate, and Dr. Blaine used the time to prepare Sam for travel by adjusting the splint, giving him another course of antibiotics, and readying a supply of meds for Dean to take with them. He was gathering pillows and blankets when Dean reappeared in the main hallway, dragging behind him something large, heavy and oddly shaped, concealed in a rain-spattered tarp. A horrible aroma wafted from it, making the doctor's eyes water.

Dean left the tarp and its contents at the base of the stairs leading to the second floor, then hustled once more to his brother's side.

"You can't take the ambulance?" the doctor asked, peering out the window at the vintage black Chevrolet, parked close to the front door, sinister and gleaming as the rain on its surfaces reflected the security lights from the house.

"The car's not ideal," Dean grated, "but she'll have to do. Can he take it if I carry him?"

Dr. Blaine oversaw the action as Dean lifted Sam carefully, cradling him against his chest, crooning to him without realizing he was doing so. As they made their way out to the Impala, Sam stirred momentarily, wrapping both arms loosely around his brother's shoulders for support. Then he was out again.

The doctor opened the passenger's side rear door for Dean, then ran to open the other side, leaning in to assist. His nostrils curled as the odor assailed him. "What is that stench?"

"Is it going to bother him?" Dean demanded to know, and Blaine shook his head.

"Not for a while, anyway."

Together, they situated Sam awkwardly in the back seat, angling his lanky body and propping his leg just so. He barely fit, but at last even Dean was satisfied that Sam was safe and secure, and that the situation was as good as it was going to get.

Almost.

Dean cracked the window open, then took the last blanket from the doctor's hands and draped it gently over Sam, tucking it around him with great care. Then he added his jacket again, just for good measure.

"Where's Mahoney?" he asked finally, voice low and cold, face expressionless.

The doctor swallowed. "There's a room," he murmured, knowing what was to come. "The attic, at the top of the second stairs. He's set up something he calls an altar, and he's there now. He's dying, although he refuses to accept it, and I believe he's quite insane."

Blaine saw something dark and horrible stir in the young man's eyes.

"You go now, doc," Dean said. "Mahoney's not going to suffer much longer."

After a moment's hesitation, the doctor nodded. He handed Dean the supply of medicines he had prepared, took a last look at the unconscious boy in the back seat, and fled.

Dean didn't bother to watch him go.

-:- -:- -:-

When Dean had hauled the stinking tarp up to the attic landing, he paused to regain his breath, inhaling deeply and silently through his mouth. _Dammit, that smell was _never_ gonna come out of his clothes!_

From behind the closed door, he could hear Mahoney's old-man voice, chanting querulously in some weird combination of languages—Dean recognized Latin, for sure, plus smatterings of what might have been Aramaic, Tamil, something Native American and Gullah patois. There was a whole lot that he didn't recognize at all, but every word sounded pained, gasping, desperate.

Faint yellow light flickered beneath the door, and the strong aroma of sandalwood mixed with the stench on the landing.

Gingerly, Dean tested the doorknob, not surprised to find it unlocked. _What was it with these guys_, he wondered, _that they were such idiots about security?_ Overconfidence, maybe, and he'd take it as a gift.

He opened the door gently, just enough to peer inside. The tiny room was lit by dozens of candles, maybe a hundred or more, tapers and votives guttering in crystal dishes set in cryptic patterns on the floor. In the midst of them, Mahoney sat with his back to the door, enthroned on a large circular ottoman, his shriveled body gaunt and naked. He was facing a long, low table that was clearly an altar.

Sticks of incense burned on it; sigils were engraved in it; piles of herbs and twigs and juju-makings lay scattered across its surface. In the faltering light, aswirl with eddies of sandalwood smoke, Dean could also see a photograph--of a young man, it looked like--and beside it, in the dead center of the altar, his amulet.

Mahoney's wavering voice rose and fell, and if he felt Dean's presence behind him, he did not show it. But he was obviously exhausted, obviously frustrated. Reaching the end of his chant, the old man raised his arms high overhead, waiting for what, Dean wasn't sure. Lightning to strike, maybe. Whatever it was, it didn't happen.

Finally, with a shriek of fury, Mahoney grabbed the photograph and ripped it in half, crumpling the pieces angrily in his gnarled hands.

"No!" he cried, cursing. "It must be done! It should have been done!"

Dean gathered a double-handful of the tarp and hoisted it into his arms, wincing at its weight and smell. He tapped the door open with his boot and stepped into the ritual room, moving forward enough to kick the door closed behind him and dropping his burden onto the floor, no longer making an effort to be silent.

Mahoney wheeled with a start. "Get ou—you!" he spat, his vehemence eliciting a hacking cough from deep in his lungs.

He slowly unfolded from the ottoman, his body withered and white, loose flesh hanging from stick-sharp bones. He stood haughtily, unashamed by his nakedness, as though Dean was nothing, was less than nothing.

"I knew that you wouldn't leave your brother!"

"You're that smart, you should know there's no point in what you're doing," Dean said, his voice low. "Give it up, Mahoney. That amulet isn't gonna do anything for you."

"It could," the old man insisted. "It _would_ have, if one of you had told me the secret! _Damn_ you, boy--nothing I've tried makes it work! Everything is perfectly arranged, but something's not right. I have the incantation, I have the talisman, and it should keep me alive, just as it has done for you. But I can't get it to work!"

He picked the amulet off the altar and dangled it by its cord, eyes glittering as he watched it twirl.

Dean cleared his throat. "Seems like you went to a lot of trouble over all this. You wanted my necklace, you probably could have ordered one from ebay. You wanted us, you could've just said you had a ghost."

"You are a pathetic liar, and New Hampshire is full of ghosts," Mahoney said, waving a dismissive hand. "Besides, the stakes were high, and I rather enjoyed the challenge. As did _you_, obviously."

Dean's brows drew together as he frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"What's that you brought with you?" Mahoney asked by way of response, indicating the tarp with a jerk of his chin.

Dean nudged the covered heap with a booted foot. "You should recognize your opening move," he said. "You like games, so I brought you a playmate."

The old man laughed. "That's exactly my point. You're here for three reasons, boy--to retrieve your brother, to retrieve the talisman, and just as an added bonus, to seek a little revenge. You have quite a reputation as a skilled hunter, and there are probably any number of ways you could kill me. You have a gun with you, I'm certain, yet it's not even in your hand. Instead, you've brought that _thing_ with you. Why not take care of business yourself?"

Mahoney tapped his cheek in a parody of thought. "Oh, I forgot! You're already wanted for murder, and this"--he indicated the tarp again--"gives you plausible deniability. Assuages your conscience, perhaps, since my death won't exactly be at your hands."

"My conscience doesn't need assuaging," Dean spat. "You're a sick, twisted excuse for a human being, and I'd be happy to wring your neck. Nobody hurts my brother the way you did and gets away with it."

"I might have," Mahoney murmured, eyes again on the amulet in his hand. "But _this_ refused to work for me.So now, I shall die!"

He flung the necklace suddenly at Dean's head, and Dean caught the amulet one-handed.

Mahoney hissed in resentful fury. "Even now, it takes to you!"

Sickened by the man's senseless acrimony and stubbornness, Dean didn't bother to conceal his own contempt. "Mister, nothing was going to save you," he said.. "What you did to Sam? No way I was going to let that pass. As soon as you brought him into the equation, you were a dead man."

"I didn't bring your brother into the equation, you fool," Mahoney replied superciliously. "He _is _the equation. He is the _meaning_ of your life. How will it feel—" another round of coughing wracked him—"How will it feel to tell him you've killed me? When he is still so terrified of the dark thing he might have become, might yet become, how will it feel for him to know that you already _are_ something far darker?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Dean's voice shook, and thick phlegm bubbled in Mahoney's laugh as he sank back tiredly onto the ottoman.

"Don't you?" the old man wheezed. "Your brother is the yardstick by which you judge your life, by which you take your measure as a man in every waking moment. Without him, you would have strayed from your path long ago. You still have the audacity to think you are the one to save him? Boy, he is the only thing that will save _you_!"

A pungent odor spread through the ritual room as the tarp at Dean's feet shifted suddenly, crackling. Dean glanced down, then back at Mahoney, grappling with the truth of everything the old man had said.

It was no secret, none of it. Not to Dean, anyway. It was why he'd made the deal at the crossroads back in South Dakota, knowing he wasn't worth anything without Sam, knowing everything had always been about Sam. For his whole life, Sam had been _Dean_'s whole life, and if Dean failed his brother now...

He had never expected to hear it from the mouth of a stranger, but that didn't make it any less true.

It was also very clear that there was no hope for the dying man sitting before him. Maybe the madness came and went, but Mahoney's body was worn and wasted, his soul a shriveled husk of something that had always been warped, twisted. He was at the end of his road, or very close to it. There was really no need to speed things along.

_But, God, Dean wanted vengeance, burned for retribution for what this man had done to Sam! His brother would urge mercy, compassion, but that was more than Dean was prepared to give. _

The tarp shifted again, something that might have been a whine escaping from beneath it.

Mahoney coughed wetly, then drew a bony arm across lips flecked with spittle.

"Just think," he rasped. "After tonight, what will you have become in your brother's eyes?"

Squaring his jaw stubbornly, Dean tucked the necklace into his back pocket and retrieved the throwaway Glock from the small of his back. He ejected the clip and examined it briefly before holding the gun out to Mahoney, grip first.

"What is this?" Mahoney asked, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

"A fair chance," Dean replied. "There's one bullet in this clip, and you can use it however you want. You know how to load it?"

"Yesss," the old man affirmed, something oddly like admiration in his tone. "Yes, I believe I know exactly how to use this."

Rough nails scraped the floor under the tarp, which began to shudder violently, and Dean backed his way out of the room.

"Then you'd better do it quick," he said, tossing the clip to Mahoney and pulling the door closed as he stepped onto the landing.

No sooner had he done so than he heard a vicious snarl from within the room as the crusker awoke. Dean heard Mahoney cry out in fright, and his breath caught in his throat.

_This man was responsible for hurting Sam badly,_ he reminded himself. _Mahoney needed to be put down like the rabid animal he was. This was no time for compassion. _

Dean waited to hear the shot, waited for Mahoney to fire at the crusker, knowing that only a precise hit into what passed for the creature's brain would kill it. Waited for the alternative, that Mahoney would put the bullet into his own brain. But the old man continued to wail in fright, and the crusker's rumbling growl waxed and waned in counterpoint.

Dammit!

He couldn't do it.

Dean threw the door open again, ready to charge in and wrestle Mahoney out of the room, save him from the sure death Dean had arranged. What he saw, however, stopped him cold.

The crusker was free of the tarp, snarling, but still attempting to gather its legs beneath it to stand. Mahoney was back on his feet, a mocking grin of triumph on his wrinkled face as he aimed the gun directly at Dean's chest. He wailed one last time, just for show, immensely pleased by his own performance.

"I know you better than you know yourself, boy," he said.

"Come on, Mahoney," Dean ordered. "Get out of here before that thing--"

The gun went off, and for a moment Dean felt nothing. Then there was fire in his arm, blood running down his right bicep from the crease the bullet had left. He blinked in surprise and sudden pain, clapping his left hand over the wound.

"Sonofa--you crazy bastard!" he shouted. "What the hell are you doing?"

The old man laughed. "Again you're a fool, too weak and worthless to have the courage of your own convictions. I knew you wouldn't leave me here to die, no matter how badly you want to do so, no matter that I'm already dying."

The crusker lurched off the floor, falling back on its haunches drunkenly.

"One more chance," Dean grated. "Come out of here, now."

"You've been the death of me, Dean Winchester," Mahoney replied, still smiling. "You've destroyed me, and I'm happy to return the favor. It delights me no end to imagine what your beloved brother will think of you for all of this. All you had to do was tell me the talisman's secret, but now? Now, you go to hell."

Dean sniffed, tightening his grip around his injured arm, the hint of an answering grin tugging at one side of his mouth.

"You first," he said.

He stepped back again onto the landing, Mahoney dropping the now-useless gun and moving forward past the struggling crusker to the doorway. For just a moment, the two men locked eyes filled with hatred and disdain.

"So let me die," Mahoney whispered finally, before he slammed the door in Dean's face.

Dean heard the lock click into place just as a sharp yelp sounded inside, and he knew the crusker had finally fully awoken. There was delight in Mahoney's laugh for just a moment, but the laugh turned quickly into a cry of terror--real, this time--as the crusker's snarl grew more menacing, more vicious.

Dean flinched at the crash and tinkle of shattered glass. Inside, Mahoney was cursing and furniture overturning, breaking. There was a sudden odd lull, and then a _whoomp_, as something caught fire. Dean pressed a hand flat against the door, feeling the heat rise quickly.

He heard Mahoney shriek, the scream echoed by a ululant cry of savage terror from the crusker as flames snapped and a flickering orange glow spread under the door.

_There was still time to change his mind_ _again._ _It wouldn't even be that hard. All it would take was a heavy boot in just the right place..._

The noises inside the burning room became even more horrible. Dean dropped his head to his chest and squeezed his eyes tight for just a moment. Then he turned and made his way down the stairs, Mahoney's mad cries turning to laughter and the crusker's howls following him all the way out to where Sam waited.

-:- -:- -:-

He was near the edge, running on fumes, unable to remember the last time he'd slept. Dean drove straight west, clear to Watertown, before turning south; drove until, hours later, Sam's desperate groans from the back seat told him that his little brother could take no more. Then he found the nearest emergency clinic.

Hours after that, Sam was in the hospital, out of surgery with six temporary steel pins in his leg and an estimated seven weeks of recovery time stretching ahead of him. He'd been very lucky--there was no bone infection, and the surgeon had decided he didn't need a skin graft on his calf. Still, the stitches weren't pretty.

-:- -:- -:-

It was on the evening of the third day that Dean spotted the article in the weekly update, tucked away amongst the regional news.

"Huh."

"What?" With his leg in traction, Sam found it tough to read, tough to watch TV, tough to do anything but stare at the ceiling, and that was just boring. He had spent a lot of time sleeping, and Dean had spent a lot of time simply not talking. Now, Sam cast an inquisitive glance at his brother, seated in the chair nearby.

Dispassionately, Dean read the headline aloud. "Two dead in mansion blaze—locals labeled recluse billionaire 'eccentric'."

Sam looked up sharply. He'd seen the abrasions and fading bruises on his brother's face, the dark smudges beneath his eyes, but hadn't given them much thought--New Hampshire had kinda been a thrill ride, after all. Only now, however, did he realize that the horned amulet again dangled from Dean's neck. _Shit, where had his brain been? _

"Mahoney?"

"Yeah—looks like his place burned to the ground, and none of the alarms were working. Fire was apparently started by some candles upstairs, Mahoney in the middle of 'em. Dead of smoke inhalation or a heart attack, they're not sure, 'cause the body's extra crispy. But he died with his faithful dog beside him."

"'His faithful dog'?" Sam said. "Mahoney had a dog?"

"Guess so," Dean replied.

"And the second victim?"

"Uh, that would be security consultant Walter Carson, who fell down the basement steps and broke his neck. No other injuries, since no one else was around." Dean turned the page.

"Dean?" Sam's forehead crumpled as he considered how to word his real question. "How exactly did you get me out of there?"

"Brought you in the car, Sammy."

"That's not what I meant. Dean, did you--? A lot of people could've gotten hurt."

Dean met Sam's gaze squarely, chin lifted. "I didn't do it, Sammy. I did not set that fire. Mahoney was alive when I left."

After a moment, Sam nodded. "Okay. And Carson?"

"I didn't set the fire, Sam," Dean repeated firmly, and Sam got the message.

He sank back onto his pillow, mind racing, watching his brother carefully.

Dean leafed casually through the sports section, patently pretending that Sam didn't exist.

-:- -:- -:-

It took Sam a full minute to put the pieces together.

"It wasn't a dog," he said finally. "It was the crusker. Wasn't it, Dean? Somehow you got the crusker—oh my God. How did you even--?"

A faint smile tugged at Dean's mouth. "Cruskers are creatures of habit, Sammy, and not very bright. Say one had found a favorite eating spot, dined there often—you know, a real regular customer. Then, say, somebody stole a shit-load of tranquilizers from a vet's office, mixed 'em with something like that gris-gris we picked up in Meridian last year, and salted a goat carcass with the whole lot. Maybe put the carcass where that crusker had been eating all week. You'd have to wait until it showed up for dinner, but after twenty minutes or so, damn thing would be out cold, and you could probably haul it all over hell-and-gone without it ever waking up. Not for a while, anyway."

Sam gaped in disbelief. "You're insane."

"Maybe. I'm just sorry it took so long."

"What were you _think_ing?"

Dean shrugged and huffed a laugh. "Two birds? I don't know--seemed appropriate. Guy had brought that thing all the way down from Canada, I figured he should see it up close and personal, I guess."

"Dean, what you did--"

"Don't worry, Sammy. You know I wasn't gonna let that monster live."

"That was..." Sam's voice trailed off as he searched for words, and Dean filled the void, suddenly angry.

"What? _Bad_, Sam? Twisted? The crusker had to be taken out, anyway, and Mahoney was already dying. After what happened to you, what he did to you, no way I was going to let that sadistic bastard get away with that!"

"So, what, you're suddenly this avenging angel?" Sam snapped back. "Swooping in to deliver justice as you see fit? That's not your job, Dean--that's not your right!"

"Going to hell here, anyway, Sammy," Dean replied, almost nonchalantly, but his mouth was firmly set.

"Maybe you are, Dean, but I don't want you to have _earned_ the trip!"

They glared at each other darkly for a few moments, until Sam took a deep breath.

"What I was going to say," he said with thin patience, "was that hauling that crusker around like that was dangerous. It could have killed you. And what about the fire?"

"What about it?"

Sam wet his lips. _Dammit, there was a reason why Dean was making this so hard, and it couldn't be anything good._ "You dragged the crusker into the house, and then what happened? What started the fire?"

"I already told you. It wasn't me."

"Dean."

Dean leaned forward abruptly, newspaper crumpling in his grasp as he glowered at his brother. "Sam, I tried to get him out, but he wouldn't come! The sonofabitch shot me!"

Sam's eyes flew to the bandage peeking from Dean's t-shirt sleeve, and Dean nodded, his anger vanishing again as quickly as it had appeared.

"I didn't ask very nice, but I could've gotten him out of there, if he'd wanted." His tone was oddly apologetic, and Sam cocked his head curiously as Dean's glance skittered away. "He just wouldn't come."

"Dean?"

Sam's voice softened, and Dean waited warily for whatever was next.

"Dean, I know that the things you do--well, you do them because you think they're right. But please, Dean. _Please_." Sam paused until he was certain he had his brother's full attention. "I want a real chance at saving you. I want the full year."

It took a while, but Dean looked away first, and it was his turn to breathe deeply.

"Yeah," he said finally. "Okay."

Sam nodded, relieved.

"Okay, then," he said. "Okay."

-:- -:- -:-

There was silence between them for several more minutes as Sam processed what he had learned and realized he had more questions.

"How'd Mahoney know about the amulet?" he asked finally.

Voice and eyes back under control, Dean looked at his brother over the top of the entertainment section.

"He didn't."

"What? Dean."

Dean dropped the newspaper to the floor, leaning forward again in the chair with a frown-line between his brows.

"Sammy, what I want to know is, how'd Mahoney know so much about _us_? He'd definitely been in touch with Gordon Walker, but Gordon couldn't have told him everything."

"He knew a lot," Sam agreed, remembering. "He knew about the yellow-eyed demon, about the car crash--even about you being healed back in Nebraska. Yeah, he knew more than anybody, maybe, except for Bobby."

"Nononono." Dean straightened in his chair. "You can't tell me that Bobby would have ratted us out, Sammy. Not Missouri or the Harvelles, either. So, who else could have done it? This whole set-up took a lot of intel, a lot of planning, and a lot of brains."

"I've been wondering about that, too," Sam replied slowly, picking at the blanket beside him. "There used to be someone who could've organized this, Dean, someone who knew us pretty well."

Dean huffed a laugh. "Yeah—Dad."

"No, not Dad. Someone who might've learned from him, though."

"You're losin' me here, Sammy."

"Besides us, who's had access to Dad's records? Saw how Dad put things together, how he made the connections he did? Someone who knew us fairly well, considering."

Dean was perplexed, pondering, but Sam watched his eyes. He saw the answer hit, and saw it get discarded immediately as Dean shook his head.

"Sam, Ash is dead."

"Dean, he _could_ have done it. All of it! It wouldn't even have been malicious on his part—you know he'd have done almost anything, just for a beer!" Sam's voice rose with excitement and something near anger. "Say he heard somewhere that Mahoney was looking for a talisman like yours. Or maybe Mahoney recruited him somehow. Dean, Ash might have _told_ him! Could've told him what we do, what kind of thing would bring us to New Hampshire. Could've figured out how to lure a crusker down from Canada. He _sure_ as hell knew that you--"

Sam stopped abruptly, and Dean shot him a look.

"I what?"

Sam's voice dropped, but he held his brother's gaze. "That you'll do whatever it takes to keep me safe."

There was another pause before Dean shook his head again.

"Sam, Ash is dead," he repeated, and Sam challenged him instantly.

"Yeah, and we know ways of getting around that, don't we?"

Dean caught the corner of his bottom lip between his teeth. "Yeah, I guess we do," he said finally. "But we may never know for certain how Mahoney found out so much about us, Sammy. Man took a lot of secrets with him when he died."

"I guess so. But, Dean—don't you want to find out for sure?"

"Nope."

Sam blinked, not believing what he'd heard. "But you just said you wanted to know how...You're just gonna let this go."

"Looks like." Dean clapped his hands on his thighs, as though that was the end of that. "So, you're tired, and I gotta—well, I don't know what, but I gotta do something so you can rest and so I don't draw too much of the nurses' attention with this handsome face."

He gathered the scattered newspaper from the floor and stood to leave, catching Sam quirking a smile that didn't come anywhere near his eyes.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Gotta go, Sammy. You get some rest, and I'll see you tomorrow, 'kay?"

"Dean."

_Oh, God. What else was there?_

And then he knew. Dean heaved an exaggerated sigh, folding the newspaper and placing it on the adjustable table beside his brother's bed, just to have something to do with his hands.

"What is it?"

It took Sam a while to phrase the question, his throat working. When he spoke, watching Dean earnestly, Dean saw not the man, the warrior that Sam had become, but the little boy he'd once been, innocent, guileless and pure.

"There's, uh…Dean, there's nothing you're not telling me, right?"

Dean sniffed, keeping his eyes on Sam's face, knowing exactly what he had to do and say to put Sam's mind at ease. This was a game they'd played for years, Sammy asking the tough questions, depending on his big brother to tell him the truth, Dean never wanting to lie.

Long practice had taught him how to win, but Dean had _never_ wanted to lie.

Schooling the emotions on his face carefully, Dean made sure that his voice and his body spoke the same language in a precise mixture—cocky, self-assured, and more than slightly annoyed that Sam could even doubt him. "What the hell? C'mon, Sammy. You know as much as I do about my necklace, man."

"It's not just that, Dean. I was thinking about things we haven't shared with one another in the past"—Dean rolled his eyes, and Sam plunged on, anyway—"but we're not doing that any more, right? Keeping secrets?"

"Sam, we're not schoolgirls."

"Dean, please."

Dean met his brother's unflinching gaze, reading the degree of worry there and on his furrowed brow. _Fuck, the kid had_ _just been through so goddamn much!_

"No, Sam," he said firmly. "There's nothing I'm not telling you. I don't have time for those kinds of games anymore. Clock's ticking, remember. Why? You got something _you_ need to get off your chest?"

Sam shrugged, suddenly dismissive. "No. It was just on my mind, that's all."

Dean watched him a moment longer, then flicked his eyes away. "Okay, then, that's settled. Neither one of us is keeping secrets from the other, and we can still play Barbies together at recess. Now, you ready to get some shut-eye?"

Sam settled back against his pillow, adjusting the covers at his waist. "Yeah, I guess. G'night, Dean. See you tomorrow."

"I better not come back here and find you chasing any nurses down the hall," Dean warned, and Sam smiled tiredly, closing his eyes.

"I'll leave that to you," he said, voice fading.

"G'night, then. I'll be by after breakfast."

-:- -:- -:-

Sam opened his eyes when he heard the door close softly, telling himself that it didn't count—it couldn't count—that he had kept what he'd seen back in Cold Oak from Dean, hadn't told his brother about the dream or vision or whatever it had been about the nursery of their house in Lawrence. Mom recognizing the yellow-eyed demon. The demon feeding six-month-old Sam with its own blood.

Sam winced at the memory, then tried to brush it away. It was probably just lies, anyway, and it didn't hurt to keep lies to oneself. It couldn't.

The frown was still on his face when Sam drifted into sleep.

-:- -:- -:-

In the hospital corridor, Dean leaned against the wall, brows drawn together, one hand clutched tightly around the amulet on his chest. He'd spent a long time thinking Sam had been too wrapped up in his own drama way back in Toledo to notice that both brothers' eyes had bled with dark secrets in Bloody Mary's presence. Now it seemed certain that Sam believed all the cards were on the table, and that was fine with Dean.

He had no doubts (_no doubts!_) that the yellow-eyed sonofabitch had surely lied, back in that Wyoming cemetery, fucking with Dean's head about how Sam might have come back from the dead--might have come back different. As for what had happened in New Hampshire, there were some things that little brothers just never needed to know.

The frown still on his face, Dean pushed himself off the wall to head out. It took him a full three seconds to realize he was following a shapely nurse to the elevator as she pushed what looked to be an extremely heavy cart.

"Hey," he said, frown melting into his very best winsome smile when she turned to him. Shapely and pretty in just the right combination, he thought. "Let me help you with that. You going my way?"

In fact, she was.

# -:- # -:- #

_Thanks for reading! Comments welcomed. On to Season 3!_

_-Linnie_


End file.
